The earth in the front yard’s
worm-broken as always
after the rain.
So many castings on the surface,
thick red threads squirming
on the sidewalk.
I still don’t understand
how anything lives here,
myself least of all,
but I do, and they do.
They seem in fact
to thrive somehow.
I don’t, not at all.
I’d go so far as to say
I’m bad at living;
worse at it than
these worms are,
anyway.
It’s odd
how it happens
that one can end up
envying worms. I hope
some nice ones eat me
when I die. I know
it’s not worms like these
I should be counting on
for that. These worms
aren’t the right type.
These worms look like
survivors, like they’d know
that you are what you eat.
That’s a good enough reason
for them to avoid me.
It’s raining, I’m waiting to die,
worms have come up from the wet
all over the yard, and I’m watching
them from the window. If you need
anything beyond this
to understand me, be like the worms:
steer clear.
June 6th, 2018 at 2:32 am
It seems very wrong to laugh with delight at this, but I did. I have missed your poetry. Full time care giving for a husband with Pulmonary Fibrosis, Lung Cancer, Congestive heart failure, and Kidney Disease doesn’t allow much time for the “fun” stuff. Tonight an attack of insomnia “freed” me to get on line and check out my old haunts. It is worth the insomnia.
June 7th, 2018 at 7:30 am
I’m dealing with similar caretaker concerns here, which is one of the reasons I’m a little less prolific than usual of late. Take care.
And thank you.