"Xs"
Long hairs and mostly bearded, we are the bottom
feeders. Sour at the mandible, our mouths grow
eyeballs, we censor every third word. Panicked souls
slip through our fingers. No more than cushioned toilet
seats, we stick to your ass, nip at the ankles and scream
for more lacquer. You throw the kitchen in our ears
and fill our eyes like a mailbox, an exotic stamp
you float away with the mailman. We see your faults.
your crooked lifeline, bent finger and scarred wrist.
We are chumps to the coaxing gene, With deer
we stirred to a salt lust. swell with that scent,
now predators can't find you. We are cursed everyday.
We are innocent. We wait for your screw-ups, the quirky vows,
You pin us to a rapidograph tree and taunt " get out of this one,
warthogs" You give us the heebie-jeebies,
a taxidermist with empty shelves, but we're stuffy enough
you remind us. In the dark, you rock with scissors
in your lap, Delilah, unafraid of bossy gods.
© 2007 Brenda Morisse
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