Poem-A-Day: Day 189

Most Days

It has been an awfully long day
when your balls smell
like year old salsa
that’s been baking in the sun,
and your back aches;
a sharp pain dulling the senses,
it feels like a hippo,
or some obese beast rolling around,
up and down your spine,
wailing for food, or scraps,
or whatever they crave,
and your hands twisted claws,
crippled bird’s feet
rough with the anguish of time,
and you’ve spent the day
among the fools and the retards
watching their money part with them,
they kiss it goodbye so eagerly,
and bid it “godspeed”
on its journey to find their enlightenment.
It has been an awfully long day
most days,
these days.