By H.G. Peterson

Dedicated to Azura Skye

The other day I came across a fresh thing in the ground
When I stepped upon it, it made a squishy sound
It was sort of like a gurgle, like to a flushing john
Curious I looked down, to see what I stepped on

The color was transparent, though not completely so
If it were alive then its moving didn’t go
For when I went and took a stick and poked it several times
It didn’t react much at all except for a few whines

Wondering was it ectoplasm, I got down to examine
For at a closer look it might be vomit of a salmon
But why would fish, I thought, be walking down the road?
It’s quite less temperate than a watery abode

It was not coins or radishes, for certain not pureé
Nor bioluminescent pork, nor the scab of an ofay
I couldn’t see a kiester, or joints like dear Phssthpok
Could it be old muenster, or crushed caiman in a sock?

I tried to ask a man I saw about its genesis
But he just smiled and mumbled about whale ambergris
This I thought unusual and quite outside of true
For they cannot perambulate, not even with four shoes

This, of course, is why I can’t ever leave my home
Without a vacuum sample tube and shock-absorbent foam
In my satchel are always kept some beakers in a rag
‘cause samples sometimes spill out inside that battered bag

I sometimes take a ratchet and a candle with a wick
And lest we not forget, there’s that handy poking stick
Always prepared to test out a putrid mass I find
I keep these things with me. They give me peace of mind.