The salt of the earth
is not known for a bedside
manner. Theirs is not for tasting
the white of an egg, but predatory,
sponged and purged, rubbed
in war wounds, blood-red
as Mercurochrome.
Why trade in such certainties?
Let them roll like Jujitsu, tumble
easy, as water off a duck’s back,
salting icy roads instead of tears.
I ask for a small portion,
like a cocktail olive
in a vodka martini.
It’s just a scratch.
Kiss it for me.
Kiss it for me.
tk/July 2015
Is it just me, or is this sexy?
*Bathers, 1950 by George Tooker
