Dinner Guest
No one
would have a poet
as a dinner guest
because we all know it
would only be
a few bites before
he (or she!) was
hold-stomach-hobbling
down the hallway,
us worriedly following,
and then, he
or she would drop
to his or her knees,
spewing putridly
into the toilet,
and we would recognize
bits of the meal we
both had in the bile,
all the while
knowing that same
murky mess of
vomit lurks in us;
it just
looks so much
uglier
sat before us
at the bottom of
a bowl.
