they drive their buses full of angry people
right down my throat.
(i don’t think i’m alone in this, it’s just
i can only speak for myself.)
but as i was saying,
they drive their bus down my throat via
this very narrow road they’ve found in the air.
they drive this bus on this road until
they park the bus in my stomach.
my guts cramp while the bus idles
and fills my boiler with stinky exhaust.
i can feel the angry little people
getting off the bus.
they wade around my stomach mucus and
one guy always tosses his wendy’s bag on the ground
as if he owns the place.
but what can i do from outside my skin?
they keep driving in and
filing out of the bus before they say
the pledge of allegiance together.
all while polluting my body
with their trash and exhaust
“it’s a free country,”
they tell me.
freedom knows no bounds.
the narrow road, i don’t know how they found it,
but god be damned if they ever asked me.
if they had, i would have said:
“please find another way to get where
you’re taking these angry people.”
and then i’d have said,
“my stomach isn’t for your buses anyway.”
nobody asked me though.
it wouldn’t matter if anyone asked me now,
though, because all that happens
when i open my mouth is
exhaust pours out and my voice
sounds like an idling bus engine
and my words sound angry like
the angry people
whose voices echo up my esophagous.
i can’t escape all the arguing, which
puts me on edge so
i’m guilty of anger too.
i’m mad as hell, but not
because i ever WANTED to be.
i don’t understand though.
why must they keep driving this way?
i used to sing before this road,
but now i have potholes on my voicebox.
now i sound like
a traffic jam.