Blind and daring he thrusts himself out in
fits and starts across the scorched road.
In C’s and S’s he curls and squirms,
his message to the world quite clear:
a soft bed, cool and moist nearby, he prays.
Time runs short, where could it be?
Heat from above and below sets upon him,
his skin drawn tight, his energy in retreat.
Maniacal twists draw naught.
Where, oh, could it be?
Skates roll by, young lads at play.
Eyes stop to stare.
A poke and a punch and all’s done.
A boy looks down, just a worm, he shouts
and laughs and moves on.
This poem first appeared in the summer, 2016
print issue of Donut Factory.