The Monday Poem:
EVOLUTION
By Eliza Griswold
Was it dissatisfaction or hope
that beckoned some of the monkeys
down from the trees and onto the damp
forbidden musk of the forest floor?
Which one tested his thumbs
against the twig
and awkwardly dug a grub
from the soil?
What did the tribe above think
as it leaned on the slender branches
watching the others
frustrated, embarrassed,
but pinching grubs
with leathery fingers
into their mouths?
The moral is movement
is awkward. The lesson is fumble.