Misspoken
I let my tongue slip–
I think to whip
some moment into shape–
but it flips out, flop,
sloppy eel, pink as a weal
of scar, blinking
in any brightness.
It won’t re-swallow
quick–
so I tug the big lug
over my shoulder
trailing a fug
of mouldering
not-meant.
i really didn’t.
************************
Here’s 55 for Mama Zen’s prompt on With Real Toads. The drawing, such as it is, is mine as well as poem; as always, all rights reserved.
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