Toadstools
They are everywhere, it seems,
Rings of pallid rosies
In the playground grass
(And do they know, I wonder
Where children tread?
Will baby feet that toe this line
Vanish, as of old,
Leaving behind one bloody shoe
On the classroom floor?).
Their lesser siblings
Over which, sauteed and stuffed,
We salivate,
Until they burst in brothy bombs
Spurting the throat,
Heat-sharp and meaty
As a lover's spend.
But these are plain things
Of earthy pleasures.
No, it is the showy ones we love,
Burnished beauties in shades of umber
Bright as coals,
We stitch them into samplers,
On tee shirts and tea towels stamped.
We give them to goblins and pucks
In which to live,
We make for these beasties
Elfhomes, the walls with peril laced.
For do we not sympathize?
How could we not
When this decaying
(Or else decadent) world
Breeds lurid poison
As the rotting snag blooms
With caps of death?