The words in my head have
gone soft.
Rancid, like pears
left too long to ripen.
Moist, browning - thin skin oozing
something murky, sugary.
Gluey, like skin skimmed off
cold oats. (A gentle breath of
flaccid steam rises,
sighing into extinction.)
Smug, like a small dungheap
of still-warm tea leaves,
fatly soaking up
the dregs that lie
pooled around it.
Silent, like limp carrot peels
perched in an orange pile
at the sink edge:
damp whorls of near-translucent thinness
with pale, minuscule root-hairs
drying in the warmth.