Dedicated to Slugs.

An inquisitive crouch,

A poke in the water

He plucks it from the puddle

Between his finger and thumb he

Squishes it

To present to his crew

Whose noses all scrunch,

Stuck out tongues all content with their friend’s findings.

How can disgust result in such a celebration?

Grandmother’s table encircled with

Satisfied hot chocolate moustaches dusted with cookie crumbs.

The slug eventually relaxes from his contracted state;

And Unfortunate Veteran

Who has no choice but to

Move along,

Tormented by the memory

Of the fingerprints of a five year old boy.