Thorny Sap Poem by John Weber

Michael slaps his forearm as he
          thumbs through a
          book of epitaphs,
inscriptions cemented upon a
brown volume filled with tacky
sheets

holding memories under the spotlight
          like that prickly
          crown of thorns
filled with creamy sedation. He
cranks the volume on his tiny
speaker

hoping to cling to Stevie Nicks'
          familiar gravel smoothing
          with pungent aroma
reminiscent of wood-chips and
coriander, until a twitching, frenetic
squirrel

emerges with mange in his scowl.
          He darts with corduroy
          fingers through a
navy backpack filled with bandages,
alcohol and jangling pill bottles before
sighing

in the serene orange permeating beneath
          the direct label
          warning of risk.
Despite the tremors and menacing
stings, he mashes the crispy shell with a
spoon.