There is a species of zombie

that sits on its haunches all day

peeling tubers with its teeth.

It spends time over questions

such as where its next square meal

might come from, swatting

any stray insect that comes along.

It has no ambition, for which it is ridiculed

by other zombies who have plenty.

It wants nothing to do with foraging,

or saving for a rainy day.

It wants only to be left alone to think:

where is my next square meal coming from?

It has strong jaws and malleable lips.

It's opposing thumbs are good for gripping

primitive tools most firmly,

useful also for cracking husks of seeds,

disturbing nests of honey ants

rending victims limb from limb.

It thinks the wayward clouds most beautiful.

It used to know the words for love.