fire escape

pleasantly reminded of the meat on your bones,
i take swelled bites of the nodding neck.

you call me, say wanderer in farmer form,
always aware of my chaucered tone.

abbreviated speech from the speaking teeth,
lick my wounds with a silent tongue.

i grab for white powder, or the novacaine hose,
filter whats left in the urn down a drain.

there are no more homes where i used to be born
somwhere upstream i made a wrong turn
& your rocks gashed the bottom of my boat.