Ten Inchworms
for M.B.

just so difficult to accept
that you are not my girl any more
not even a little bite left

what ache because of it, because of shift
from the middle of the page to the margins

from the middle of the bed
life raft upon the waves
to being shoved onto the floor
or overboard, into rough waters

we gathered together once, she and I
beneath a table

restaurant where we were waiting
to order something boiled or stewed
with grits or jonny cake, out of the blue
being robbed

gunman, masked, demanding money,
left with cash register
fired a shot into the ceiling upon leaving

shot, after which, we
and all the other patrons, surfaced

how together we were then
we still are like peas in a pod

without the worm crawling about
looking to make mischief


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
12:56 a.m. 25.05.08