Fly-swatter

I never noticed this old fly-swatter
Hanging here on the back porch before!
How many times must I have passed,
Never to notice or even glance
At its rusty old handle
And torn blue plastic swatter pad?
I could never in a million years guess
How many flies this old swatter has swatted
Or little baby butts it may have padded.
I have lived here for five years
And never once do I remember
Ever noticing this old fly-swatter.
It must have hung here
Through many a harsh winters;
With the rain and wind,
Freezing and rusting;
It must have been blown back and forth
On this old rusty nail;
But never did it fall,
It just hung here in the place that it was put;
Just like and old dog that waits outside,
Just beyond the door of the grocery store,
While its master wanders inside.
When I looked real close,
I noticed the remains of an unfortunate bug
Still stuck to the dilapidated
Blue plastic swatter pad.
I remember when I was about eight,
My mother was involved in an accident near our home,
She was thrown from the car
Hitting her head very hard,
Leaving a small rusty blood spot on the asphalt.
She was taken to the hospital
And remained there for a very long time.
I would often return to the site of the accident
And just stare at that small rusty blood spot,
Not knowing why;
Maybe like the unfortunate bug that remains
Here on this old fly-swatter,
I believed that part of my mother
Still remained there on that old dry asphalt.

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