I Do Not Like Worms

To believe the town, its rushing waters bleeding by,
sending its age and newness to other ways beyond,
wherever that is, that long away place which kept
all my lost bobbers and broken lines with hooks –
Down in the down by – this – or the other – that,
it could be – if found with a thousand catfish –
certainly – learning to eat with hooks stuck in
their throats like baseball cards in bicycle wheels –
swimming by with ten feet of trailing nylon line –
broken off in the heat of battle!
“Tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic tic” – as the
worms go sloshing down –   the wheel goes round –
flicking away time – along with flecks of Pete
Rose, left on the long ago ground.
That long ago ground –
who once endured the steps of soldiers north,
and soldiers south soon behind them – tossing
cannon balls and musket balls into her
swallowing mouth – devouring our time and
little flecks of Pete Rose and posing with
them, mother earth – hiding them –
turning them back into worms.
I watch them all from my point below the stars,
wondering how many worms might come from cannon balls.
And crescent moon never falls, never falls into
earth’s gaping mouth.  Only shines to watch the
night crawlers come out from deep within – some
smelling like musket balls and tonic and gin,
cigarettes and nasty-nasty…  Oh how the worms
have seen us all, silently waiting for us to fall.
And we will.  Flecks of Pete Rose and all.

© 2015 John Allen Richter

About johnallenrichter

I am an aspiring Poet and adorer of life, a conqueror of nothing. However I am a champion curator of truth and friendship and hold both of those things most dearly to my heart. Welcome to my mind's eye. I hope you will enjoy what you may find and please know that you have a friend here. View all posts by johnallenrichter

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