When I was young I would visit the desert.
It was dry and barren.
I live there now.
When in that desert
I would catch scorpions.
Those freaks of the first order
are equaled by
those freaks that would capture them.
And still I hunt scorpions.
The burning sun blistering my neck’s back,
the brightness of midday searing my retinas,
with spade and pail in hand,
I would set out in no particular direction.
Yes, I had high hopes of stealing a venomous one.
They all have venom.
Their chitinous exoskeleton cannot carry
the full burden of the sun’s truth-rays.
Their insides would be openly exposed
as having not a firm bone in the body.
And so they find an excuse:
a rock
a log
or some other such rubbish.
I have not found one that did not hide under rubbish, not a one.
I remove it’s shelter quickly;
stunning it.
There she stands momentarily, looking at the sun directly,
not doing anything, let alone fleeing.
I think they almost like it: pondering immortality.
They all like the loving light for a while.
Awakening from her stupor she seeks escape.
She scurries frantically to wherever.
Little does she care
that the cause of her discomfort
only seeks her companionship.
I block escape for I will not allow
mere excuses to cause my pail to go empty.
Yes, I can give a good life in comfort with
regular feedings and climate control with
no fear of harm.
But they are hateful creatures that hate to be seen as they are.
A hand that got too close receives a sting three times.
Falling back and looking in disbelief,
I hold my stricken hand and watch
my friend go to where she will.
It was fun while it lasted.
