A Fine and A Private Place

It was fine, it was private, it was busy.
There he was, with his fingers crossed,
With a dead hand hung against the lively eye,
Doing what was expected of him,
twenty-four hours a day,
Feeding the worms out of his flesh,
As was right, as was proper,
Enriching his piece of earth.

He scowled (of course) at the apparition
Who rapped decisively on his door.
An apparition both heating and chilling,
telling him nicely,
‘Put those worms down, please.’
He pleaded it was nearly feeding time.
‘Down, please.’ She was grim and charming.
So he stretched his limbs painfully,
And shambled off to a life of pleasure.
‘It was fine, though, it was private.

Hasn’t a man of my age a right to
some peace on earth?’
‘No,’ she smiled as if in compliment,
‘Men are warriors. Worms can wait.’
‘But I have work to do.’
‘You shall work tomorrow,’
Said the charming lady, brushing an
Obstinate worm out of his side. “Today
We will do what we have to do today.’
No worm had ever talked like that.

It felt odd to be using those limbs again,
Those impertinent muscles. Enriching
(As she told him, with a wit that turned him
Hot and cold) a different piece of earth,
in a richer way.
He admired in mirrors his unsuspected
sensual lips;
Regretted the worm-nips along his thighs.
Tried to remember what was done in books;
Thought of himself as a liberator
(Then coughed. She was free already).

He could see it was most enjoyable.
The lady was strange. (Spoilt, he felt,
By a lack of responsibilities.
She didn’t care for worms; work she saw
As nothing more than necessary.)
But undoubtedly charming.
No—for example—ghost.
If he had to describe her in one word,
It would be ‘alive’. In another, ‘open’.
She lacked the solid charm of habit, though;
Of missions completed, feeding times, closed doors.
He nursed a pair of surreptitious worms
Between his toes. Refused to take a bath.
Drank too much and simulated death.
At last he pleaded morals.
The word intimidated even her.
She sent him home—his sensual lips forgotten
Except where bruised, and unremembered
what was done in books—
Saved by morals. The worms were waiting,
And a piece of earth, to be enriched.