it toddles across the pond’s bottom
with only a fingernail of protection
spun into a ram’s horn
nothing in his slime trails indicates
he’s ever stopped at a fork in the algae
to see which way might be better
he simply roams his bowl-shaped
home without the highs of happiness
or lows of sadness to adjust his path
probably not for you and I
with our restless legs and
dreamy eyes and wings we’ve
been building since we were young
but for those that accept
the simple life
going round and round
in the place they were born
I mean have you ever met
a miserable snail?
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