Joe Scissorhands Poem by Joseph Fusco

I clipped the tip of my left nipple off while trimming chest-hairs in the bathroom last Thursday.
It was a sweltering July night and a drop of sweat from my forehead distorted my vision for just a second.
Next thing you know, there's a knob of pink flesh clinging to the side of the sink like a passenger on a Titanic lifeboat.
To say I bled like a pig would assume Porky was hemophilic. I dabbed cotton ball after cotton ball on the wound till the bathroom looked like the Easter Bunny massacre.
Finally, it congealed. But the cosmic question remained... What to do with the piece of nipple? Should I super-glue...Should I put it under my pillow and hope the Mammary-gland Fairy gives me quarter...Should I try to sell it on E-Bay as a relic of some obscure saint...
I just ran the water and let it float down the drain imagining a Giant Nipple soon terrorizing the Worcester hydraulic system.
"Bad news, " I told my wife. "I won't be able to nurse for a couple of weeks."
"Better steady your aim before you attempt the nether region, " she replied.