Literal Latte

it must have seemed like a good idea at the time:
to wriggle up from moon-swung deeps, from slime
climb onto rock, grow legs — six? four?
Two — and reach for fat forms shimmering in air
— the ones that hung, the ones that ran —
grasp them with initiate fingers
chase them down with sharpened stone...
and then:
to stay a while and watch
the seeds come up, plant a family
— who doesn't love a gardener? —
and not be forever trekking
after food with blood in it or forever
hauling the proliferating tools and toys
from place to unplumbed place...
and then:
to put it all on wheels and haul
it anyway when seasons
changed and brought nostalgia
— for the whiff of salt, of fertile mud —
crawl with traffic on the one-way road
— somewhat like turtles hardwired for return —
to claim a seaward facing porch or strip
of sand, and watch protected by umbrellas
lotion, costly UV treated glasses,
the unencumbered porpoises cavort right
through the wall of our first, lost home.