On a Snail

One unusually cool morning, as I crossed a familiar bridge,

I came across an olive green and brown snail shell, empty.

The shell sat in a puddle by a small ridge;

No snail in sight who could claim it rightfully.

The bridge overlooks a small lake.

I looked over the railing and saw the mirrored side.

Trying to understand, for my own sake,

Maybe the snail committed suicide!

Who knows what kind of life a slug leads.

Sliming around, looking for juicy vermin,

Retreating nautically when the cat feeds,

And in the presence of salt, horror is determined.

Maybe the snail's wife had been cheating on him,

And he was left at home with a bunch of screaming squids,

He probably felt his future was dim,

And needed a way out (his wife, no doubt, did).

Perhaps his boss accused him of embezzlement,

And he neglected paying his debts.

Maybe he even tried to fight the establishment,

And lost all his savings on ill-placed bets.

No one can know what happened to this snail;

Maybe he didn't kill himself after all.

It is, after all, feasible that he didn't fail,

And away from his too-small shell he did crawl.