Whence the Waters Wailed

sunlight reflects off an oily sheen on a river
oily sheen on the water
Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

Flighty fingers hold the key to the pit in my gut

where I bottle all my resentment.

You know what you said, bedhead,

but I pretended

I heard

nice words,

babbling birds,

“did you plait platinum for Plato, paste a plate of potatoes

on planet Pluto

or pay Peyton a plato del puntos?”

This is not a real thing,

the birds don’t have lyrics to sing,

our head’s bloated and full on sadly real things

please cling to friendlier imagined dreams

to make us forget

the keycode to the pit.

My fingers, though, have taken flight already

and typed your number in,

I have a flood in me

a flood of gunk and stinky skunk

I have a flood in me

come tumbling out of the bottles.

Vamanos a la coast

to vomit out resentment

too real

to dream on

but here at least, it’ll

feed the meager seals.

I don’t mean

to be mean

to the seals

by feeding them resentment

I just think

they fear bears

and boat scares

and the resentment

might give them adrenaline

to swim somewhere safe, super fast,

you know?

I don’t mean

to be mean

to the sea,

I just think

it’s got a lot more room

for gunk and stunk

than my little queasy stomach.

Vamanos home,

humming with the birds,

“have you pet a puppy on Neptune,

nipped a winter nap in the bud;

melted martians’ shoes on the moon,

sang a soapy song with the suds?”

Hey, bedhead, I know a lot of games

where I play pretend.

4 thoughts on “Whence the Waters Wailed

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