I live with a turtle,
a box turtle with a
high, domed shell.

At times, during
his daily cruises,
when mounting

shoes, which are
surrogate mates,
or toys, which are

vantage points
from which to
survey his land,

he will flip over.
He holds still,
then, for a time,

does not soon
begin the fight
to gain purchase

on wood floor
with head, limbs,
or stub of tail.

It’s as if he fears,
after fifteen years
with us, that a hawk

might yet appear
in the dining room,
or maybe a raccoon.

Something. It pays,
he knows, to always
keep one eye open,

to keep one’s
orange eyes open
all the time.


For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge, Day 14 (prompt: Write a stuck poem).