Looking up from the whir of whipping ropes,
this double dutch master of pastel steps
pressed in my memory a scene of Scopes
offending a nation needing forceps
to assist the birth of kinetic thought.
And then I recalled that recent clipping
depicting the outline of one just shot
there, right there, at the crack she was skipping.
That piece was at home with my trilobite —
quiet multimillion year companion
bound by a fossiliferous contract —
bored now of the nagging living invite
given when I plucked it from its canyon,
wishing to be washable chalk unpacked.