They raise their hairy heads and look around
as if to ponder other ways to go,
as if they had some freedom not to know
what to do with themselves, their brains unbound
a bit – enough to contemplate the ground
they’re wedded to from just a slight remove,
and then with reconsidered views approve
the line they took, no better being found.
They might as well continue in their groove.
They’ll pass their fated stages, fast or slow,
shedding their habits in due time, like you’ve
been waiting for your muscles to outgrow
their memories – never mind, you think, how soon
a stranger will awake in your cocoon.
Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash.
Matthew King grew up across the road from Etobicoke Creek in Etobicoke, Ontario, and used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto. He now splits time between Marmora and Wollaston in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville", where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His poems have recently appeared in FreeFall, Orchards Poetry Journal, Sparks of Calliope, Talking About Strawberries All of the Time, Cypress, and the Rattle Ekphrastic Challenge. Connect with Matthew King on his website or Twitter.