"About My Navel" By Willy J. Williamson
A gullet of flesh choking on coarse hair
or more like a whirlpool spitting lint
and gritty, wretched pus.
The navel is barely a poetic subject,
that is unless you consider disgusting portals
to the murky inner self a philistine concept,
which many might.
Fools.
Bukowski