Wormy poem

[sarahmichigan]

Worm Refugees (working title, probably will change)

After the first spring storm, I'm
Hop-scotching around worm refugees,
The deluge has washed them from
Their hidey-holes. They wriggle to temporary
Safety on sidewalks only to be
Dried into jerky by the sun.

All that death used to bother me.
When I was six, the neighbor boy, Dan,
Would fling the dying ones at
Girls to make them scream. I couldn't stand
Him touching me with his wormy hands,
And I ran from him, crying and mad.

I loved angling, but felt queasy at the
Prospect of baiting the line, pushing sharp
metal through rubbery pink flesh,
Watching the dirt-shit drip
Out when a nightcrawler was ripped
Apart so two could fish.

Now, they're just bits of squirming protein
For birds to peck at. Out of reflexive kindness,
I avoid stepping on them. Now sun-scorched,
They are debris to be swept
off the floor of the garage, a mess,
A nuisance, unmourned.

To novapsyche: I wrote the poem roughly first, then went back through and re-arranged and used the thesaurus to put in the slant rhymes. That was tougher than I thought it would be!