New Ports.

 

New Ports.

 

Occasionally an
old habit

and my

failing memory

haunts me,
and I

find myself
forgetting

to exhale,
as I enter

forbidden

quarters,
my nose

leaking smoke
like some

ancient steam

machine,
in elevators

or lobbies
under the glare
of the

oxygenated,

like some

cast out leper

who should

wear a sign

that proclaims me

 

"Unclean, Unclean!!"

 


as my feet beat

a  hasty retreat

always to

the mumbled

jumbles of

the critics

hacking as

if they are dying

or waving

their hands

back and forth

as if King Kong

just farted..

as I escape

with my

trapped

remnants of

that serene

nicotine

to the fresh

scowl free  

air outside
to expel

my toxic wastes.

 

 

©-MFB III

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