The Edge of Conceit
Do you ever forget to feed your child?
Tiny hands groping at your calloused feet,
an urchin crusted to a rock, waiting
for some rations to float by, or concede.
I am a sponge full of your blood and vomit.
I soak and am fermenting, here, alone—
a mechanic's rag: so very useful,
it would seem, yet so unnecessary.
There is an extension of your body,
a limb reeking of my nauseous attachment,
a limb waking at night in icy wax,
as close to cracking as summer rubber.
We are as close as the wind and the breeze.
We are tension below acrobatic feet.
How long before the kettle starts to boil?