As the coil whistles wild tunes and rattles the nerve
Of what rest of self savors – an ease about flow,
The mind could think that wellbeing has a firm grip
On the body, or it could go bonkers an trip
On just why it seems, all the time, it has to know
To what purpose the whistles and rattles might serve.
It’s a coil, after all, in the form of a bowel.
I will steer clear of jargon that steers from what’s clear.
A tight coil is less spring-like, or more, by the way
I devote my attention throughout the long day.
If I take notice that no bowel movement is near
Then my day is a menace; my language is foul.
Thirty feet of a snake that will never stretch out
Nor will never see light of my day from its place
Well-concealed in its chamber, content in its ways,
I should cease my condemning it and give it praise
For the work it does ceaselessly in its embrace
Of whatever I put it through without a doubt.