It burns. <br /> <br />The sagging, despairing meltdown <br />that characterizes living. <br /> <br />Electronic noises crapping <br />in the background. <br /> <br />Kids at school. <br />Dishes in sink. <br /> <br />I feel like dipping my soul <br /> into the dishwater. <br /> <br />Rubbing it clean. <br /> <br />What is clean? <br /> <br />Whose standards are determined? <br /> <br />It tingles. <br /> <br />The blue plastic lid that <br /> sits upon the table. <br /> <br />Lost its container <br /> but I know <br /> a good <br /> envelope when <br /> I see one. <br /> <br />What do I see? <br /> <br />Onion grinds mixed <br />with garlic frolics. <br /> <br />Spice. <br /> <br />It burns.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/surrealistic-cigarette-package-8207/
