Day 324/365

I coveted dirt as a kid.
I'd tramp around the yard in bare feet,
muddying up my toes and ankles
as I turned over stones in search of cooler bugs.
My hands became smudged with dark gray
as I tortured caterpillars, ants
and all manner of bugs,
stuffing them into the mouth
of an empty 2-liter soda bottle
and letting them writhe in unnatural orgies,
carnal, bestial.
As a preteen,
I didn't bathe for weeks,
months sometimes.
The soil graduated up my legs,
on my midsection,
down my arms.
My neck was a nauseous brown sometimes.
I wore long sleeves on hot days
and I was scorned for the smell that followed behind me,
foul, like drunken vomit and salami.
Today, daily showers,
clean laundry,
gardening left to gardeners.
I don't get dirty,
as gloved fists sometimes do
in streaming vids I pay for.
Many men, average in appearance,
hairy, some skinny, some chub,
twisting and turning,
opening and closing,
filling and emptying
and hosing each other off
with their own water.
Filth, all of it.
My body trembles to partake
as I watch the images
until the release,
and then I shudder
and head for a long, hot shower.


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