let’s get our words separated
from the oil of conventional wisdom
old milksop for tarnished thought and reheated arguments ad nauseum

dash the salts of mismatched socks
deathless affection, opened hands, peculiar minds, redemption acts
nonsense rhymes, erratic sounds

make a seasoning blend for enduring
the bellyache of daily grinds and
broken chairs, a stab of skeletal spice
for the fading beat of pomander
lead with a substantial growl

from the stomach, from the throat
those hungriest parts of you
rising, beautiful, beloved

Will D. is a nurse by day and poet given occasion. Believes deeply in hunger. Scribbles under @ByThisWillAlone.