POEM: Little Fruit Fly

Little Fruit Fly,
At least that's what I think you're called,
Buzzing in almost silent, high pitched frequencies,
My ears struggle to hear, you,
Go from hand to plate to cup to wall,
Directionless, seemingly,
But yet propelled somehow to the points of the compass,
You long to engage with,
There's a focus on the apparent chaos in your movements,
Darting back and forth,
Thirsty for whatever needs to quench,
That innate desire, cerebral or instinctive,
You know what you seek,
And you seek what you need, which,
Is further along the evolutionary scale,
Than I sometimes feel, with,
Your decisive indecision,
And your focus on the present,
The needs and responsibilities,
The necessity of actions,
But yes, you may,
At least from the outside, appear,
To be void of rigour,
Lacking in purpose, but,
I see,
I see something in you, your directness,
The method in your madness,
And I delight,
And I wonder,
And I ponder,
How much more I have to learn from you,
Before I turn off the light and leave you,
To the strawberry mark on my plate.