Lollypop Stick

seeing me in the clothes I wear
people must assume that my clothes, or that something
like a snake, is swallowing me down

in most of the clothes I wear it certainly seems
that there is much less of me left

life or something sucking me down
down down down to the dry bone

in clothes I wear, do I look like I’m stricken with some disease
as if struck by a vehicle which cannot, will not reverse
carrying me along

not seen or seen by a physician in a long time, not since some years ago
not since some time before my physician died

about my clothes though, about how I look in them
the collars much too large, pants hitched up about my waist
belt pulled tight, material enough almost, to make another pants

go around again, enough room remaining
for a second person to climb in join me in them

these are not clothes which fitted me once, fitted me like a body suit
they are not mine or were not always

what I wear are hand-me-down, clothes given to me
I like the poetry as well as the humility

see pictures though, see what others see
wonder what they must be wondering

am I being shunned because of it
is this why I am not having a dray load of sex

in my termite-ridden house, I scratch, I itch
are they getting rid of me or trying to

numbers unimaginable, drinking my substance
sucking it through straws

are they working tirelessly as they are
working on, working in all the wood
of which my house is made


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
2:39 p.m. 26.06.09