The Worm
Found a worm in the ceiling.
Moth larva, pale as silence.
Most would crush it.
I didn’t.
I gave it a corner.
Beside us—
me, my daughter,
the cat that used to live in Bangkok.
It moved like a thought
too shy to finish itself.
No plan, no protest,
just purpose.
At night, it worked.
No noise,
no bills,
no performance.
The cat watched,
didn’t kill.
Maybe she knew—
some souls dig, others devour.
We live upstairs from the soil now,
but the worm still remembers.
Turns dust into beginning,
rot into order.
If I ever learn how to live again,
it will be like that—
quiet,
low,
useful.