Like a worm
in the center of the sidewalk
when the sun comes out,
I am tempted
to curl my round body
and give it up
where I am.

"But not yet," I hear
a distant voice insist.
"Not yet."
"Not now."
"Not here."

"But to die beneath a bright yellow sun,"
I argue.
"It beats living
beneath the cover of clouds."

narrative poem written on 03-31-2016 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


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