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Bad Breath
Offal, the slick at the back of this throat --
lucky to be set where no one would get at it.
Limping, turned liquid, stench like sour
garbage that's basked in afternoon sun
in the wettest heat, just after a storm,
as the pests are starting to get flustered.
Not where one reaches hand, nor tongue,
nor thought for more than a moment when
they're met in the hall, forced to converse,
with no lubrication for the dialogue.
Detritus, traded like a prized
commodity; currency implied
by every phony witticism and
diatribe exchanged that we'd taken
from a daily mail, some sort of joke;
each inevitably written by someone young,
sarcastic and not just a little bitter. Then,
we say our leave and take with us our heat
that we'd been breathing, releasing and
just, throwing all over the damn place.
