An Ode to the Flushed
Cough drop body, jelly bean head
and those whiskey ticklers! tentacles!
antennae! antlers! horns! No!
No–you're framed in wire wisps,
sand dune limbs!
I first spot you loitering
to my crinkled toes, stone stiff and quick
as a skipping rock over the still pond
of my bedroom floor.
You saunter 'cross the hardwood
with your burnt walnut of a body – feigning
innocence with that pinprick halo.
How do I know you won't feast on
my peach-fuzz lining, on my flesh coat,
on my sleeping skeleton?
I shake and crawl these timid
trembling hands to the closest cage–
an empty mug.
I've got chaos inside now, I've got organs
playing bumper cars, I've got an empty mug
with your name on it. In a moment of
sagacity, of which I don't recall
I must have slammed down that tea-damp cup
housing you–walnut jellybean whiskey ticklers
and all. I slid a thin board between the floor you stole
and the mug you stole and carried you to the toilet bowl.
I've got to admire your tenacity, tickler.
I would never have groped the inner walls
of that toilet's mouth for one more toxic breath–
but you ran porcelain laps! dodging my
pointed jabs! inhaling that pungent air!
Oh, the will to live!
And you do–
Even after I flushed you
every small reflection, every flicker
every disc of movement tiny as breath
was another you.