Down under
the flowered field,
where the flowers resemble
paint against the tall grass,
there’s a busy city.

Mrs. Mole sells her jewelry
to the pawn shop
down the street.
Ever since Mr. Mole died,
it’s been wearisome.
With sorrow in her eyes,
and remorse in her heart,

she gives the rollie pollie,
who’s worked there for fifteen years,
the necklace
Mr. Mole gave her
for their 5th year anniversary.

Down under,
six feet to be exact,
among the corpses
concealed by coffins,
there’s a busy city.

A tree’s root
sneaks down,
into the home of the
shrew.
He screams and screams,
hoping to expel it.
But the root,
did not make it’s exit.
Instead,
it flipped the couch,
And threw the paintings,
no longer,
hung neatly on the wall.

Down under,
among the creepy,
and the crawly,
the beetles and the maggots,
there’s a busy city.

There,
I decompose.
Into the soil and the
thin roots of weeds and flowers.
Laying prone,
with nothing to do
but watch the mourning of Mrs. Mole,
and the misfortune of the shrew.
I watch the busy city,
and become one with it.