A Kid and a Snail

It could all come back soon. Purple.
The holes in the ceiling that shine.
The leaf-paths sparkling because of it.
It took a patient 15 year-old to find a Mayan city.
His muscles haven’t developed yet but
he doesn’t abuse digits; he could look for the town.

The mystery snail doesn’t need a chip.
He needs to chew a dead plant.
He needs a correct PH balance and cool water.
He needs us to let him alone.

The kid had the time to look for the town.
It was there, but no one was going to find it
driving around with hamburgers and radio music.
People read Lord of the Rings for salvation
and know it can’t be bought at church.

So, the snail, it eats dead plants and poop.
It has one job, two jobs. Consume and eliminate.
Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice.
If you need a job, get some food and water first,
then ask for the job. Make sure it’s outdoors.

Twenty-three constellation burned above the kid
and twenty-three cities grew and were overgrown
but the kid saw a city was missing and pointed
his starmap at where the city should be
and the city was there. You have a smart phone.

The kid and the snail. Oh, to be a snail again,
to live in the not-first-draft life,
to see the holes in the sky
and know that the best parade is the parade
that there’s people in.

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