The Shame of Quietness
And all misery come to me,
someone who keeps annoyances completely silent.
Oh, shut up. Stay under there!
The tablecloth trembling with desire to just
slop and dribble my secret everywhere-
to everyone- to be released into the raucous of some pillowed room.
In anger I stab with a livid fork, prodding any solid being
manifested under the stiff cloth.
Even I am afraid to look. The pang growing in my chest-
swelling up, the mortal immortal, neuter being
doubling over in size:
frightfully inept, and quite boisterous.
With a boldish effort I nudge and jab-
waiting like an expectant child for the soft rebound
of squashing prongs upon skin;
thick tar in the sun;
strangely elastic, stretched over too much fat--
expecting it,
the fork-prick;
but slowly elusive.
and there was evening and morning.
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