verses the lonely lives of fleas, or so
I would assume. Do fleas have sisters
or fathers or best friends? Do they notice
a missing neighbor I combed out and killed?
Have they ever wished for a bigger thorax
or jealously admired a tick's sharp teeth?
Do they have terf wars or squabble over
who has the best God or hope and dream
of a better life on a dog or goat or deer?
Are they grateful there is plenty of blood
and skin to go around, for all them and
their host? Wild bear scratches an ear,
are they thrown into earthquakes, tragedies,
disaster? Little flea aid teams disperse or
they just hold themselves, tight, grateful
to not have fell off, grateful to survive
the storm? I must admit I know nothing.
Nothing of the world of fleas or bears or
even cats in my own home. Without
biologist hubris, I don't pretend I could.
All that I will never know, dead and dumb.
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