It is raining outside, while
I race yellow cornbread crumbs
Down my shirt, onto my plate,
On my lap, on this couch that is warm.
My digestion quakes in its illness, and My mind shakes—shooting adjectives
At the verdant clutter of this room.
I inspect my belly button for decay,
an outie— I’ve been always proud.
Could life be any better
Any more beautiful?
Perhaps gnawing into
Sweet yellow bell pepper.
Or the teenage wont of reversing food
Up my esophagus and burning,
Despite intrepid disinclination.
And too thoughts.
God made all this for a reason?
Today I think seeded a tyros vista.
Forward now to lose my self
In sentimental hope.