A Quartet of Unrelated Thoughts, Poetically

I hate the word “disease”.
It’s like spiders,
Or worms;
Something rotten,
Moldy cheese.
A defective specimen,
Like God said “oops!”
As something melted
In the oven.

I like the concept
Of mushrooms,
The way they thrive
On neglect.
Their elegant forms
And fairy rings;
The magical properties
Of decay.

Sometimes I wonder
If bugs feel pain,
And then I am overwhelmed
With guilt
For every crushed spider.
After all, they eat the flies;
What did they ever do
To me?
How very violent
The sole of my shoe.

Often I wish
That I could fly,
If only because then
I might not be so very bad
With directions.


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