An Empty Calorie Poem by Charles Malcolm
An Empty Calorie
It's not your troubling intent.
I've come to love your taste.
Black sour
vinegar
running slick
down my smiling face.
It's not your brittle bones
but your lack of precision.
Bleach-burnished
eyes
glancing perfunctory
as you make the incision.
Do it with a scalpel
or don't do it
at all.
You are too much
of everything
and
you are far
too small.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: love,women
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4/26/2024 1:10:43 PM # 1.0.0.1119
