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.
1 April 2010