Dirt

Dirt. To really appreciate it you have to be sleek and wriggly just about as non-anthropomorphic as the animal world comes. I remember dissecting earth people in biology. Was it five hearts or three? There's profound significance in those hearts but I just haven't figured it out. Like the mortician who signed his letters "eventually mine" the dirt people have a kind of hold over us—but they don't ask for much. Moisture, darkness and last night's foodscraps. Vegan only, please. Oh and last Sunday's newspaper. The news that's fit for real dirt.

What is it. The dirt. We want it when we have had enough smooth talking banter about the weather and other small nothings. Martha could tell you all about the real dirt over the fence. Or sitting at the mahogany shoreline of the local bar. Or one ear pressed to her wireless ATT receiver.

We seem to need it like those wrigglers. It breaks us down.