Tread

Away from my home, farther each stride,
I walk and walk and walk and walk.
Every pore weeps with moisture; 
my face slick like the sticky bottom of a Twinkie.

My calves ache at the incline; 
my soles strike damp asphalt in defiance, 
undeterred by the throb 
of overworked morning muscles.

I step over a newly dead snake, 
flattened by someone’s oblivious tire treads.
There is a metaphor, or a joke, 
though I have no one to share it with.

I activate the screen on my ever-present iPhone.
Gemini AI tells me that late August
through early September is "newborn season"
for local serpents, "...such as Copperheads." 

I am further warned by the generative large language model
— though a little late for this pancake corpse — 
that native Maryland snakes carry protected status;
it is illegal to kill them.

"Don't tread on thee!"
I exclaim to the squirrel on the road,
unable to restrain the pun 
that was building inside me.

I press on in silence,
my mind caught between human rights,
clinical strength deodorant, 
and laws that protect poisonous creatures.