a snail, plumb in the crease of a wilting green leaf with a loose tooth.
all the theatric lemonade at the box social, basking in long overdue
and upfront Delilahs… scorpion averse in a diabetic coma
made of so many wishes
you can’t live with.

the snail disembarks from the usual blarney
and writes a book about an up-close bird
with a beak as ominous
as a pop quiz.

while The Play is the Thing that keeps asking Why
when there’s a perfectly obvious
Gadot.