FOR WORMS
For worms, the pavement
must seem to be
a desert of asphalt –
a rocky expanse,
or a vast and featureless
alien world.
So when seeing one stranded,
I pluck him, gently
away from his plight
between finger and thumb,
then I redeposit
the far-too-adventurous
back in the garden
where I think he belongs.
I fancy myself, as a bit of a hero
a champion of the
oppressed –
But in fact, all I’ve done
is scupper his plans
and denied that poor worm
his ‘Everest.’
