Heya, little slug,

how’d you end up crawling
across a dirty, cat-footed
dish towel on the kitchen
counter this rainy night?

As if I don’t know,

Diego having wandered in all
soggy from a who-knows-where
nap, undeterred by wet or mud
between his toes,

to, yes, hop up on the counter
and front-foot it into the sink
for a drink—though, yes, he’s got
a tall cup of water, just cat height
on the floor. Apparently that’s for
daytime drinking.

I do not want to know, little mollusc,

what part of the cat you rode in on.
For now let me relocate you
outside into your natural habitat,
on some damp earth where you
might live another day to munch
your way through, say, leafy
detritus or a bit of tasty hollyhock.

Go ahead, you tiny composter.

It’s spring. Plenty of volunteers
to nibble out here, bobbling under
nighttime drizzle, this misty gift
of spring, like your slimy,
sluggy self.