How One Builds a Life

Grubbing about, always grubbing
like chickens in a farmyard, scrawny legs
disturbing hardscrabble like chopsticks
scratching in dust bowl dirt after
bugs and bits, always grubbing about like
the lissome fingers stained and slender of
a street pickpocket weaving a crowd with
his fingers, his silent weft a grubbing, so
too the throaty low call of the layabout like
the tentacles of a passing jellyfish languid
and come-hither, and the twitchy pulp
of the plowing pig snout exquisitely grubbing, snuffling.
Grubbing grubbing.