I can taste it,

the apology of my behavior,

it crept up the long

stretch of my exophagus.

I thought it was a burp,

then I tasted it, not a

sweet, after doughnut

breeze caught in my mouth,

but an old stale bubblegum

apology that wedged itself

in my teeth like taffy

or an old cough drop wrapper,

caught on the edge of

the cherry rush soother

that I popped into my mouth

yesterday, attempting to

suppress a separate apology

to my mother for spilling

coffee on her daily jumble.

I'm holding this rotted sweetness

in the worn down, enameled teeth

that stay in the forefront of my mouth.

It is a wriggling worm

and I hope that soon you'll be

the baby bird, laden with soft down,

that eats it.

I hope that it will

give you an appetite for

future wriggly meals.


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