Content
Willing to look at your weathered
Face and weep. Trace the cardboard tear.
Run my finger down those little cracks
Rubbing hairs, breaking spines
Then laugh.
I can lay here on this non-existent slab
Pretending death. Imagining which organ
You have crushed within your hands. Smell your breath.
The scent of graveyards, dusty tables, ham
And all those bottled memories you have left.
Flood my life with varied vice
Then die a sizzling sudden shock.
Half dressed, half bent
And modeling little but
a pair of socks.
On my face a sculpted smile.
Scratches, scuffs and varied stains
Unpaid rent, sagging skin
Un-kept hair and clogged up veins.
Content.
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