They are everywhere.
They won’t go back in.
All this squish and wiggle…
I grab one, and three escape.
They cannot be swept, and now I must hide this ruined broom.
I would let it all go,
except for the others who will blame me.
They will frown upon me.
Even in my confidence, they will hold their scorn,
but roll their eyes to each other when I look away.
They will complain about the mess, the slime,
the sound of stickiness.
I did something very natural;
the blame should not be at my feet, glistening as they are, with shiny trails.
The fault is his who came before me.
Who in their right mind would put worms in a can?
Prairie Sings 