I don’t fit
In the glass box
Like some contortionist on Ed Sullivan,
Folding myself down into impossible angles
To fit a projected assumption
Of what I’m supposed to look like,
Though I suppose a blunt instrument
If applied with sufficient force
Could make me malleable enough to fit.
Some type of tarp would then be necessary
Along with something to absorb the seepage.
Once the messy part is over
I could be encased in plastic
And displayed without embarrassment.
Everyone would marvel
About how nice and polite I’ve become,
And not a peep out of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment