Like a snail crossing
a quiet country road
at dawn, I have my chance
and then I don’t.

I’m too slow.
Always too slow.

Seeing so many broken
shells, guts spilled,
why would anybody
want to be a snail
at a time like this?
Or a drag
racer for that matter?

I am the curbside
pedestrian poet,
bad decisions
made by others.

What was on
the other side
that made this one
What was or wasn’t
on this side,
for that matter?

I look at these snails;
this crunch of flesh
and bone below
the arch of my step.
I can’t help
of that bullet
that tore
through her pretty head.

Bits of brain.
Shards of skull.
Shell and snail.
It’s all the same,
mourning bad decisions.

I set one under toe
and let gravity go.

Oh, now,
I get

This crunch;
quite nice.
This crunch
at the end.
This crunch,
This crunch
softly goes.
This crunch
so reposed.
This crunch,
this crunch,
and nothing
beyond the

Oh, now,
here comes some
to pick at
what once was
quite nice.

I suppose
they’ll fly off
to shit on some
slow moving
fool like me;
another snail.

Circles of life
circles of shit;
it’s all the same,
mourning bad decisions
made by others.

written on 04/22/2014 by: Matt Kane