We like to move, move, move,
like sea-freaks our hearts pump
and we move and hate standing
still—even in the desert
when all is lost and
we've only sand and dry
twigs and dry eyes.
When it's all over I'll move
from building to building
to see how other folks
used to move and what
they left behind when they
moved on—
and I'll whistle nervously
as my eyes bounce from corner
to corner, window to window,
greasy doorknob to greasy doorknob—
never settled nor calm, my
heart rattles on.
Cockroaches and rats with
fat rumps,
know the way to move
when there's
stuff for the taking—
so
why not take a cue from
crude critters
when times
get rough after
the Earth's
stopped shaking?
