The Poet Makes the Most of a Bad Situation
The skin is skun,
the heart halved like a melon,
and the bone bowed in each direction,
to get to the beauty
buried beneath the bogus-ity of it all,
but it is there, it is there,
and he knows to work hard to get it.
It’ll be a swollen grapefruit
sat squat in his hands,
overly bitter at first taste
but throbbing and ripe with juices
and lingual opportunity,
and most vitally of all,
it will be a warm pink:
plenty and ever so bright enough
to nourish a lively lot of poems.
First published in INK.