He's a grown man with an
imaginary slice of cheese
held between his thumb
and forefinger,
pinky held high in the
air.
"The French savor
the flavor of their food," he explains
to a student absently
chewing,
laughing behind a book at
Odysseus,
ears filled with beeswax,
sailing past the sirens
tempting his crew to crash.
As imagination touches
his outstretched tongue,
his grip on the table
slips and his spine is soon against the floor.
No one ever pays enough
attention.
That is why these things
happen.
Outside, the alcohol the
cotton ball is soaked in
hardly touches the
woman's own hands,
no doubt thanks to the
delicate nature
with which she dabs it
against the child's wounds,
her tiniest finger held
as far from it as possible.
This siren's song sure
sounds a lot like an ambulance
No comments:
Post a Comment