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Watching a Worm
The nematode, only oms
And then of course, noms
And munches,
without, really
munching much at all.
No teeth.
Ah.
To move in the mulch.
a thicket
of touch
not really
knowing where or,
how
you are.
A siphon of silicone
sipping at soil
silent and secure.
But,
at any sudden moment,
you might get
all
your hearts broken, (five, good grief)
then broke again
and again (five of em)
by the bastardized beak
of some god-damn animal?
Rough.
But,
the worm
being herself
wiggles anyway and says:
“I am a worm.
I do what worms do.
I swam through the rain, once
to sleep tail to tail with some woman, man, I don't know
I wormed through the pit of a
turnip bit, once.
It was warm enough
to feel like rainlight.”
And you wasn't awarded
remembered, or
understood.
You was ignoreded,
dismembered, and
stood on.
So.
Why worry.
There really are worse things
in life
than to wiggle.
Copyright ©
James Brown
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