We, the Eaters of Culls

Secretly, we whittle away our days in your closets, under your boxes, in corn meal, at the edge of your burlap sacks, and within book-backs.  Wee-intentioned and practical, our sort happily noses through your bread crumbs and wriggle through corner-caught lint.

What might be more perfect than to cohabit without the smallest tap or clatter to annoy you?

We, the eaters of culls.

We, that bloom in disrepair. 

We, clawing up the backside of your stairs.

We’ve no lovers or dearest mothers or even a common word to spare.

But we are quick when you find us.  We are raw nerve endings and vaulters-away.

We, the silver.

We, quick as a shadow-crossed fish

 

--Mitchell Hegman