If the sound were enough
of a diagnosis, we would all be
impressed with your lungs,
shouting as they do.
Nothing to do with you, of course.
But my ears do not lie in
this court, and you are clearly
sick, bleating like a helpless
lamb, innocent, yet guilty
of yellow, slimy brown, as it trickles -
ejecting thoughts so dark,
they barely are reliable to
describe the latest bloody emergency
room entry, callous though
the diagnosis is, the doctor
was plain in his description
of Britannica and Webster,
they both stand up to
whoops of deconstruction,
Mind you, we would never
laugh at your predicament,
sterile water running, your body
drawing in more definitions
of serious, nursing water, drenched in
bile, infectious, diseased dirt.
Please let us know when you
have painted your brown walls with
Lysol so we can breath near you,
list you among the living,
listen to your talk without your
brazen hacking, begging for sympathy.
But mostly it's the description
that hurts the decor, and listening
to jarring rhythms of people
who otherwise might be dead.
© 2013 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.