Worms

When I was young
and summer was fresh
I used to watch
the worms
bathe in the driveway
during a heavy rain.

They danced about
the pavement,
their pink flesh
speckled with dirt,
soaking up the droplets
so freely driven
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
from the heavens.

And I would think

how nice to be a worm.

Days spent digging,

handless groping

through brown tunnels,

unseeing eyes peeled,

searching for a spouse

to do the dirt dance with

before introducing them

to the big, mean world

above.
 

And I’m still thinking

how nice to be a worm.

Focused only on

living,

crawling,

feeling,

never finding the time

to notice

the enthusiasm

of a thunderstorm

when children

press their noses

to windows

and wonder

what worms

are really all about.