POETRY

 

ChapStick

does what it says, sticks
to your chap. Greasy, smelly,
people not expecting to be kissed.

Thick and heavy, it never
soaks into your craggy lips,
but creates an outer flypaper.
Hair blown forward
sticks moustache mouthfuls.

Sickness brings colorless
derma strands ringing
dry, flaking lips.
Others' eyes watch your
dead skin speak.
Medicated variety keeps
pouts full, moist,
and radiating menthol air.

Uncool black tube
hides at the bottom of pockets,
but extends its waxy wing
when smiles split with thirst.