Dirt Loves Me

Dirt
loves me.
You know,
the dark brown stuff,
unless of course
you’re in PEI
and then it’s red.
But it’s still dirt:
the musty, dusty,
silty, sandy, silly stuff
that smells like early spring.
That dirt.
It just jumps
onto my shoes
when I’m out walking,
and clings to my cuffs
when I’m silently sitting
on  a park bench
just minding my own business.

And then there’s Mud,
the icky, sticky, thick,
wet, water logged
cousin of Dirt.
It also loves me.
It coats my shoes,
jumps on my legs,
and hangs on for dear life.
Same with Splash.
Not just the one in puddles
pushed through the air
by cars and bikes and buses,
but the thick, red, savory sauce
with hints of olives and anchovy
that coats spaghetti,
and along with red wine,
just loves my shirts and sweaters.

And don’t get me started
on Chocolate.
That oooey, gooey
deep, dark, bittersweet
earthy smelling
kind that just
melts in your fingers
and drops down
to your pants.

But the one
that in all modesty
loves me the most,
is coffee.
In fact,
I’ve long suspected
that word
travels along the
family tree of coffee beans,
so when I drive through Tim’s,
there’s a coffee chorus chanting,
“He’s here. He’s here. He’s here”
and all that rich, steamy, slightly bitter, dark brown liquid
is just lining up to be in my cup,
so before I even get a sip,
it literally leaps
onto my pressed pants.

Now,
I’ve tried
to entice water to like me,
that silky, slidy, slippery, thin, clear liquid,
but it won’t give me a second look.
Imagine.
So I’ve taken to going out
in well worn,
threadbare and frayed clothes,
hoping Dirt
and all its relatives
won’t recognize me,
travelling incognito
as it were.
But what can I do?
Dirt loves me.

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