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
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.