Worms (lots of them)

They appear like a plague
One day after the Ides of March
Early morning
The Sun didn’t appear just yet
The smell of flesh still
Burning inside out
The smell is there
But where does it come from?
Cycling on the street
There again
Almost hit by a car
Bicyclists are the very last in the pecking order
The food chain of traffic
There is another smell
Still fresh
The smell of midnight rain
Hanging just above the street
Later on the road
The tarmac is full of blisters
There
A dead mouse
And there
A cluster of worms
Lots of them
Too many to count
The steep hill is finally challenged in victory
The ride is done
The bicycle left aside
The lock is closed
But that other smell is still hanging in the air
And there it is again
The cluster of worms
At least parts of it
Spattered all over the bicycle
All across the saddlebag
And like a plague
They won’t be erased easily
With their burning smell still hanging on them
For days and weeks to come.