As I pick it up I recall the creature’s daily clicking

and strange penchant for Astroturf, for the small island

of bright green plastic pointers sailing on concrete slab like a raft,

religious above the sea of dying green in my backyard.
I fancy how this exoskeleton might be placed

to rest in the Garden Of Death; the shrine that grows

from dead trees, beads and other offerings

in your once cold and empty concrete courtyard.
Despite all good intents it ends up on my porch,

green body boldly laid out on a pew of firewood,

among a somewhat conscious and deliberate arrangement

of kettles, bells and other collected or discarded whistles.
God, or the equivalent, I ponder, has strange journeys for us all.