It's never too late to try to talk your way out of
this morass of hot sauce, habanero for the likes of
misunderstood maladies, simply charging the world
for remedies, anonymous but not nearly so as to
waken the doctor, the white coat that coats really
a fantasy of efforts that cross into realms of glory.
Doesn't really seem glorious to suffer, tongue in
cheek or just cheek or tongue, as it says for jokes
about beef, cattle or even other animals meant
for the stockyard, ones who don't pester pedestrian
pharmacists, as though there were ordinary
prescriptions for this malady, as suffering goes
or pains me.
In particular it is that the symptoms are catching -
or not really something I can describe beyond aspirin
that's easy to purchase in boxes, meant for giving
meaning to the word love, I know as I would like
to be known for my sauce, but never pain at
dinner time, when good conversation floats but
never wanders into emergency rooms.
© 2015 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.