the narrow road

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

hydrochloric acid.

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

and noise.

“it’s a free country,”

they tell me.


i guess

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.




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