I found a conch shell today,
on my walk along the shore.
I couldn't remember the last time
I'd seen one still alive,
and I jumped as the large, sluggish thing
withdrew into its shelter.
The unlucky fool had lost its race to the tide, yet again,
And had sat, drying in the sand.

I rushed to place it back into the ocean, as if to save it,
but to save it from what or why I did not know.
These things must happen all the time, right?
And since the creature is indeed, not extinct,
you could say that it was a normal occurrence
to lose a race to the tide.

Who was I to say it even needed saving?
From greedy gulls and clawing crabs, maybe.
But it was just like the white man to say so,
Making some excuse for a charity case.
Yet should I have returned it to the sand,
to be just one more thing fate could conquer?

No, I did not leave that shell to its fate;
I saved it, because I know that
sometimes I, too, need saving.