Buzzer Beater
"It sure smells like
March Madness in here,"
I offer with a grimace, scanning the
room for the cadaver responsible for the
acrid cloud of aroma
lingering. If I possessed
a machete, I would
lop my own nose off,
but not to spite my face.
As I wonder how paint still
manages to cling to these long
suffering walls, I step into a
brown bag of sweaty
debris while the host
does his own adept bit of sleepy
dribbling, that mighty
roar of a snore punctuating
my discontent with affinity.
I try breathing through
my mouth before grabbing a
longneck, tossing it down like a
game-winning three-pointer with
no time left on--
the clock, on the wall, that’s it! My
lips drop a doozy of a lie as
I tear past the beached flesh
of my once dynamic friends.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
