Virgin, Child and Taxi, New York City

R. Nemo Hill

Musing on Mushrooms

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I see you, little mouse,
You and your kind,
Hiding in those dark nooks and crannies,
Waiting, waiting.
How meek, how edible,
How obliging.
Happy trip button,
Eager to open doors
We didn’t know were there
Until you showed us.
Over looked but overlooked,
You continue to multiply in the dark.
Feeding to grow and growing to feed.
Domesticity cupped where the wild things grow.
Each little bulb a frustrated fist
Pushing through to us,
Impatient for the light.
Do you bring the darkness with you?
Your overcoat is as pale as death
But your petticoat’s dark.
You push yourselves forward much
For those who claim meekness.
The humble would not force their way
Through words as often as you seem to.
The page is just another paving slab;
The gaps between are there to be colonised.
A silent empire parading trophy voices,
Demanding replication to match your own.
The brain is fertile soil.
Why bother to inherit when you can take?
The door is open.