I kicked the ball,
all done my run,
and walked the sidewalk
by the wayside of the common
tracks of streetcars, vans, and trucks.
Round the bend, I approached, soon out,
bout twenty paces,
kneeled a man with covered hands.
As I got closer, it was clearer,
what it was he held so close:
He said, "the baby turtle, I found him, look!
I'm just helping him inside his tiny home."
The little turtle,
spry-green of shell and grey-webbed of feet,
The size of a JFK coin,
The man shown it with his fingers
where to waddle
to make it inside
the shoebox aquarium apartment home.
And on the news today
They said
TONIGHT--
The world's
On fire, out West
With flood, up North
And quake down South
And plague
And hate are all around,
And wars--the real kind
And the fake.
But all the while
this little turtle
is safe, and dry, and warm, and fed
by this man, so proud,
for saving a little life.
Michael, thank you, Your poem in this morning's cooler sunshine lifts my spirit.
Perhaps I too will find a little turtle today. As usual, your fresh, inventive word choice delivering a series of small surprises carries the poem for me. E.D.