“All we do is sleep, and eat and lay around and make love. We’re like slugs. Slug-love, I call it.”

― Charles Bukowski, Women

Slug On My Stoop

There was a slug on my stoop

tonight
there on the concrete
as I walked to the car
to drive to the club
for some exercise.

Moving slowly
in the
Yellow porch light.

Some don’t like slugs
but I don’t mind,
mind their little heads
lookin’ around
for what?
slugs don’t think about
creativity
the nature of art
but I don’t mind
slugs
eyes on posts
slug body
soft
undulate
brown
spotted

I think it is too cold
too late
for slugs

It was late and dark
I spent too much time today
lying on the couch
resting, thinking, dreaming,
the deadly black
control
remote in my hand
the death of life, of thought.

Slugs like summer
wet
hot
not cold rough concrete
October stoop
they like eating
children’s lettuce
going Duh Duh Duh

The little head
eyes on poles
what does it dream?
of summer? Warm and wet?
Children’s lettuce?
I dream of wind waving cream colored fabric
dappled sunlight
dabs of sun dabs of green
a dropping away
a flower unfolding and blooming before me
a lake through mesh
gold minted coins

When I came home
the slug was gone

I think it is
too cold
too late
for slugs