Slug Bait

A Poem by Perry

Winter has come and gone, and I
watch the sun through pixelated
eyes.

Gliding on mildew and
mite-pungent litter, I head for
the Old Mill Pond.

I stop to linger in the shade
of mushroom caps, watching
children collect tadpoles at the
pond's edge.

The caps rain spores that stick and
spoil my ooze. Ah, a toxicity that
bloodworms and mephitic termites
find unpalatable.

Thus, I am free to sip the
aphids gathering around me.