Observations on a Rideshare
Poetry
All those ticklish feathers and
sharply inappropriate claws.
Missing important dirty teeth, and
your vitality retired.
Scared and sad.
Told to shut up,
in “no uncertain terms.”
Ordered no contact
to protect that miscreant of
tainted laundry, a word noose
of Mercury retrograde.
All fire and chariot.
Wet with drool and
spite embedded in
betrayal enemas.
I don’t have time for this.
They said, “Just irrelevant details.”
Silent disdain.
Entrails maybe, like
a gory movie, except
on the inside, where
people don’t look.
The audience for this
admits on-demand mouth
shrieking in shame.
I would rather perform
menial household chores
for infinity time,
at Disneyworld than
have to tell my
non-existent grandchildren
that maybe their
fake father had
unspeakable things. Happen.
The point, ever
salient and salty,
is that future punishment
is memory.
An invented smell between
bergamot and rotten waste.
So much better to
preserve adultery
in snot serenades than
to alphabetize with officious
headings and color-coded
annotations, respecting
MLA or Harvard format.
There is a choice
in documentation.
