the trickle down
of this word syrup,
coating my crevices,
pouring into pores,
always yearning for
some sort of
quench
but the liquid keeps
spilling forth
and no
cessation
is imminent.
where’s the bottom,
the desert,
the dessert of the
former speakers,
a reward for
making it through
a few years,
a couple tears,
just sand and still,
yet for others,
they get air and
eternal
boring
joy.
so i sit in brown hues
among some brown pews
and listen to this tonic salesman
spread the good news
about this here serum
of some buddy of his from
back in the olden days
it heals,
it feels,
and it’s free, free, free
so long as you give
a tenth and a seventh
but i’m not much on
fractions and factions,
so i’ll keep my ninety and ten
and my sunday and then
sip my elixir of whiskey and coke
and wonder what might have been
if i had any sort of thirst
at all.
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