I scurry about, stop to sniff 

the dollop of peanut butter

centered in the trap under the deck.

The oak tells the dandelion 

I’m a dolt because I have no roots.  

An acorn falls, pops on the dry ground,

and scares me away from the trap.

Witlessly, I continue; saved, 

cursed by steady-state fear.

My tummy is burning with hunger,

my mouth is dry, my penis is stiff

and I smell at once sour and brown.

Fleas are chewing my hide, my back,

around my loins.  I scratch.

Tiny sharp claws comb through my itch.

I sniff the loamy ground where those roots

pass secrets about me, and I feel 

stupid to be a joke, and not a joker.

Of course, the roots are clutching 

huge handfuls of Earth, and so 

the tree asks the weed what my point is.

Another acorn drops and startles me,

so I jump straight up, then sniff.

The tree sighs through a cool downdraft, 

but the dandelion doesn’t notice

me or the darkening clouds 

gathering overhead and whispering– rain.

-Matt Beeson © circa 2003