For five nights a fat banana slug has come to visit me,
chugging up the window, stopping just at eye level.
In front of the chair where I sit to write most mornings,
he sleeps for the night. Or does whatever it is slugs do.
By sun up, he’s gone, leaving in his place a tiny pile of shit.
It’s hard to look past this. Drinking my tea and writing,
imagining this shiny, slimy creature I’ve come to call friend
exposed on a field of glass, making his morning constitutional.
With no real predators—not even the bears or skunks
will partake of him—he appears entirely unworried.
His simple body, tentacles, mantle, anus, upsets me.
How easily it does exactly what it’s supposed to!