Winter-dark Afternoon

 There is a fly. Too small to be a FLY in capital letters

I dub it Fruit Fly. I don't know how it thrives,

tries to butt my desk lamp. Caught in the beam

it blushes red, translucent as a traffic light,

till it changes lanes to disappear in darkness.

All diversions are fruitless. It comes back,

an irritant with a knack of avoiding each swat

I swing...

Setting a trap with an open-paged book ready to snap,

I become a hunter, judging the moment 

to dispel the torment of circling gnat or fly

in the twinkling of an eye.

Persistence wins. 

SPLAT!

I sin; pray forgive such mindful murder...

Now this sorry tale can go no further.