And there it is, sitting in front of us

like a stale piece of fungal bread.

Why has it been left to sit within the

rancid, stagnate trash bin, left to

bake in the hot afternoon sun.

That dead creature

which I’ve neglected to shovel from the drive.


Somehow, from the bottom of dry wells

a fresh green sprout has sprung

and we give it our all; put everything into it,

give it life beyond its circumstances.


And now, people gather along the side of the

brick well; watching, waiting for a sign of life

But the young sapling hasn’t grown

since yesterday.


The sun starts to set in an eerie red glow

and still no one thinks of the lost

left to rot turtle;

eternalized in his infinite walk across the splattered road.



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