This is for the snails, who wander along
at their own pace,
and the world be damned.
just the path,
the unplotted route,
visible only with hindsight.
And construction workers
and valuable businessmen and
may they all be damned
as they rush for the bus
or curse and frown as they reverse their cars,
dung beetles, rolling their shit around town,
thinking their shit's the most important shit,
muttering hateful nothings in stagnant traffic
at all the other dung beetles;
also, stressing over paperwork,
bills and nondescript forms and sheets which swarm in flocks
around the brain,
winged beasts that inhibit sleep,
birds diving into the calm water to feed,
churning the quietness of the mind in hunger.
A trusted recipe: One glass in front of the tv,
just to relax,
to slow the brain;
the act of retarding oneself for freedom.
But the snails push on,
homes worn lightly on their backs,
caring not for speed,
living only to be living,
moving only to be not still.
Silver roads, they leave behind.