The Little Things

The sacks of cells you call Self
Realize, most of them aren’t yours.
The slime of centuries has made home
in your gut, your folds, your soul.
They set up tenements and housing corps
to handle trash, parking and plumbing.
They find comfort in your crevices
not even aware of your malevolence exists
Flooding showers and tidal soap – antibiotic plagues.
They expand for fallen neighbors
and go on with their bacterial days.
They preach no afterlife. They revel in the now.
The pH levels. The protein flows.
They don’t know they are immortal.
In your final days, lying in the grave
They will call the children to dinner.

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