Poor thing –

clinging

to the building’s

exterior,

slowly swinging

its heavy, blind head

back and forth,

back and forth;

small, pearl mouth,

an ‘o’ of eternal

surprise.

Large ears –

softly furred –

flopping,

dangling,

tangling

over first one

tight-shut eye,

then the

other.

So much like a snail’s —

so much larger —

the spirals of

its whorled shell are

iridescent,

agleam,

chased

with moonlight.

Pale, fleshy tentacles

sweeping,

waving,

it finds its slow,

methodical way

along the building’s

polished,

featureless,

stone

face.

Unperturbed by blindness,

immune to dark,

it knows not that

its progress is

surveilled.

For,

from within,

from the curve of

each wide step’s descent

to the landing

below –

they watch.

The observers.

Dressed in finery and

gathered —

shoulder-to-shoulder —

they press themselves

to the wall of windows,

to laugh and

point and

stare –

aghast,

perplexed,

astonished.

They pity

the creature its

grotesquery,

equate slow movement

with equally slow

thought.

Poor thing.

Poor, dear thing.

To be so scorned,

so ridiculed,

so misunderstood.

Better –

perhaps –

to have remained

undiscovered,

unseen,

hidden

away

in the

d

a

r

k.

 

— C.Birde, 6/19