Walking up streets
of the dirty, littered
city, I cast my eye
to a black plastic bag
stuck to the thorns
of a bush of yellow
roses, like that piece
of spinach glued
to his nicotine
stained perfect teeth;
He's always chewing
two sticks of pink
bubblemint gum,
tossing words around
from side to side,
over and under,
smacking me upside
the head with some
simile or other.
It's a crying shame
that I care or even
give it lip-service,
forgotten as I am
thrown aside roughage
left for scavengers
to find almost spoiled.
Pulled perfumed petals
used to be sweet pink
lemonade until I stopped
understanding or he stopped
wanting to explain
it to me, just flakey
and tasteless.
I never bothered
to ask why he's always
popping two pieces.
