if I manage to step barefoot
in a large enough pile of dog dung,
I might be able to find a metaphor, either in the tracks
I left or in the cracks between my toes

if I sniff with enough finesse,
a simile may sift its way upward
from the ambitious heap, like grandiose molecules
ascending to heaven,
or at least to my nose

if my ears are keenly tuned,
the squishing sound may be sibilantly sublime,
or be alive with rhyme, or paint pious pictures  
if synesthesia suddenly ensues

what was the question again?
creativity? I yet need a different  pile of dung,
from perhaps another beast, for the canine
is likely tired of my verbose purloining  
from the gift he left eagerly
on the greedy ground