Every so often I find myself writing a poem. I do not know why.
On a hot day, in Maine standards, this emerged.
This life upon the bottom of the sea,
Of atmosphere, can be so cluttered
With creatures clammering to be free
Of pain and debt and anything
That causes us to cry.
We try so hard to fly beyond
the ocean of air and breath.
And yet we still return again and again
And crawl about
Darting and hiding
From the threat whose claws might bring death,
humiliation or pain;
And keep us from getting wet.