Around A Scorpion Poem by Tom Hamilton

That golden sweat on the top of a tap can,
can resemble small desert rocks or lesser pebbles
of the sort one might find surrounding a scorpion.
Except, that if there were a Southwestern arachnid
around, any simpleton would draw their hand back.
Avoiding that prong which longs to transfuse venom.

So the poison won't kill you, it just makes you sick.
Until you're searching for more hidden diamondbacks each day.
Digging twenty five bugs from the rubble each day.
To glow aureole against the many vertical grays
of the city, each day, rile one until it strikes. (Gold!)
Any damn fool would just draw their hand back.