'It sure smells like
March Madness in here, '
I offer with a grimace, scanning the
room for the cadaver responsible for the
acrid cloud of aroma
lingering. If I possessed
a machete, I would
lop my own nose off,
but not to spite my face.
As I wonder how paint still
manages to cling to these long
suffering walls, I step into a
brown bag of sweaty
debris while the host
does his own adept bit of sleepy
dribbling, that mighty
roar of a snore punctuating
my discontent with affinity.
I try breathing through
my mouth before grabbing a
longneck, tossing it down like a
game-winning three-pointer with
no time left on-
the clock, on the wall, that’s it! My
lips drain a doozy of a lie as
I tear past the beached flesh
of my once dynamic friends.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem