For how long you don’t see a woodlouse?

You used to dig around every flower bed
in search of those hiding in the dirt
or under a leaf; amassing them
in your pinafore’s front pocket
as they curled themselves up
in exoskeletal marbles.
Then you’d project those poor bastards
against your best friend’s army
and “may the best man win
over a spat handshake.

Now you wonder because
you want to see without looking;
you want to know without getting
land inside your nails.
But they’re there –

on a kindergarten’s garden,
in their constant marble shape
inside some kid’s pocket, who’s
wiping his snot with dirty hands
and smiling in predatory child's play.