Earthworms

I think a lot about earthworms.
When it rains they wriggle to the surface
Like hidden thoughts, like buried traumas
To vie for rationed breaths of air.
They squirm out of the hands of death,
Not needing to see their kin to know
they have escaped solitude
And they sigh and twitch
under gentle, spattering rain
Only to be squashed
under a rushing bicycle
Or snapped up in a charming robin's
sharp beak.

I think a lot about earthworms
Because they are trying only to survive,
Their efforts met with disgust.

I think about them because I wander
parking lots and sidewalks
under roiling skies to toss them back
into the grass.
I see this as common courtesy.

Despite my efforts, they sink
beneath the dirt,
Drowning
They struggle to reach the surface,
and when they heave themselves
Onto the pavement
They await death.

Death by the hands of an innocent, perhaps
A child who sees only what she is told to see
and knows only what they think she ought to know
Death by the hands of a deliberate, cruel boot, perhaps
Or someone running late to a meeting
If not, then they await death at the hands of the Earth
Fried on the asphalt by a spotlight
under which they writhe, unable to speak.