"There—which is it now?" the worker asks,
his voice dulled gruel behind the mask,
"a Pleasing Fungus, possibly the Mealybug Destroyer?
Warty Leaf? Dull Tumblebug?"

His hands work levers. Through the Plexiglas
the rods slot into grooves, the counters click. "No way,"
another says. "A Whirligig. Predacious Diving, maybe.
Fiery Hunter. Big Sand Tiger. Small Snail Eating. Humpback Dung."

"No chance." The light shines red. A vapour curtain
tumbles, spray disperses. They step free. "False Bombardier,
Horned Passalus, Rose Chafer. Look, its feet adhere."

"The shift ends soon. We'll wager. If it makes the drain,
I'll spring for lunch." The gloves fall still. Unweighted divers
school like guppies. "Hairy Flower Scarab."

"Tumbling Flower. Twice-stabbed Lady." Light shines green.
They head for scrub. "My lunch,
a Death-watch."

NaPoWriMo2005, April 22