The Massacre Of The Innocents Poem by Chuck Toll

Our driveway has become
A killing field for worms,
And we don’t know what to do.

They wiggle out of the grass
At all times of the day or night
To writhe and wriggle on the concrete.

We pick up the living ones we find,
(My wife and son wincing in disgust)
And return them gently to the green grass.

But they return.
They writhe a bit more,
And then they expire in contorted agony.

In death, they turn quickly into brittle crisps,
Sad husks of their former selves that we sweep up
And resignedly consign to the nearest trashcan.

What impels the worms, like legless lemmings,
To hasten to the tarmac to their destruction?
We have no moles to flee, our lawn is healthy.
The temperature is neither hot nor cold.
It has only rained in moderation.

So what is their problem?
Is it that their asses are where their brains should be,
Or that they literally have their heads up their asses?

Charles Darwin spent forty years off and on
Studying worms. His last book, “The Formation
of Vegetable Mould, Through the Action of Worms,
with Observations of Their Habits, ” proved more
successful at the time than “The Origin of Species.”

Perhaps Darwin could solve our problem.
But he, like our worms,
Is dead.

* * * * * *

My wife brooded
For quite some time in silence
About the multitudes of worms

Who seemed determined
Rain or shine to use our driveway
As the site of their self-immolation

Despite our best efforts to relocate them
Where they might push on more successfully
With their wormy lives for the betterment of all.

Then, practical as ever,
She solved the problem.

She dug out an old, five-gallon flower pot,
Filled it two-thirds full of potting soil left over
From some now long-forgotten summer project,
Added just a little water and a small sign:

Welcome to
Wormie’s Retreat
Special Off-Season Rates
Vacancies!

This sign, featuring a beguiling hand-drawn worm
With bulbous eyes, raised eyebrows, and a wide smile
(So much for anatomically correctness) ,
She taped to an old chopstick
And stuck in the center
Of the pot.

“Okay, Holden Caufield, ” she slapped
An old pooper-scooper in my hand,
“They’re your problem now.
But no one comes in the house
Until they’re housebroken.”