The consequences are, apparently, dreadful.
I can tell by the biley pulse of your mouth
and the whump of your cheek-skin.
‘Precautions!’ you thump. ‘Remedial action!’
I wonder if you know about the muffin-crumbs
wedged in your mouth-crease.
They dance when you say ‘debacle’.
You tell me about extraordinary measures.
They’ll take their toll, of course (on me, I assume).
But vacillation would, at this stage, be fatal.
(You could try telling that to your deputy sub-chin.)
You see, what you’re failing to grasp
is that yours is not the link-fence from which
they will uncuff my still-screaming corpse.
Your words cannot imprison me
nor can they ever spare me.
You’re dribbling a little.
My dog does that when he’s overstimulated.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter
would be pleased to hear them.