Earth, Wind, And Fire Down Below Poem by John W. McEwers

We put Robert in the dirt.
We tossed Pop Pop in the air.

We have picnicked with the ants
we have sang with the birds

you've brought me to my knees
and you've lifted me to new heights

But What's inside John is burning
roiling and searing
boiling and fearing
I am being to literal
I'll just retreat and show it:

A worm slowly, and from an appreciable distance,
effortlessly glides through the earth.
It breaks through the rain-packed topsoil,
bends a blade of grass as the air kisses
its slime and musk.
Without empathy - the foot lands,
crushes the worm's back half,
or front half, the worm does not know,
and he wriggles, slows, effortlessly
rests. The sun bakes and dries.
He is leather.
A shoe string.
A twig.

What could he have been?

Could he have been a John?