Thorny Sap
Michael slaps his forearm as he
thumbs through a
book of epitaphs,
inscriptions cemented upon a
brown volume filled with tacky
sheets
holding memories under the spotlight
like that prickly
crown of thorns
filled with creamy sedation. He
cranks the volume on his tiny
speaker
hoping to cling to Stevie Nicks'
familiar gravel smoothing
with pungent aroma
reminiscent of wood-chips and
coriander, until a twitching, frenetic
squirrel
emerges with mange in his scowl.
He darts with corduroy
fingers through a
navy backpack filled with bandages,
alcohol and jangling pill bottles before
sighing
in the serene orange permeating beneath
the direct label
warning of risk.
Despite the tremors and menacing
stings, he mashes the crispy shell with a
spoon.
Copyright © John Weber | Year Posted 2009
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