Across the coaster-sized bare spot
that sits within the mess
of weeds and some grass
I call my lawn, a worm glistened
in its pink and brown slicker
after twenty minutes of watering.
“You better hurry, little dude,
or some bird find you in the open,
and you’ll be flying,” I whispered.
But the worm just oozed along
at his life’s petty pace
to the next tuft of green.
I wondered why he commuted atop
his normal subterranean route
from dirt to dirt, going, for him,
relatively aerial to his own salt mines.
Then I noticed the nearby lumpy trail
of passage left by that damn mole
and I figured maybe a worm has
as good grasp on living as I do.
I never wanted to die surrounded
by my office walls either.
And if some bird would’ve come along
and carry me to my demise, so be it.
At least I’d no longer be crawling
on my belly, and, man, we’d be flying.