The slug had reached the ancient age
of 13 months
by staying close to the garden.
It knew venturing too far
led to death.
It had seen its comrades killed by birds,
by human feet and salt,
and the worst death of them all:
It always gave itself plenty of time
to get back to its lettuce leaves.
A sweet smelling banana
has seduced the slug
beyond the garden.
The slug’s best day turns to its worst.
The fruit was divine;
that begins to roast its flesh,
not so much.