A Mouth
       

A sack of marbles, worthless coins, say what you will.
A mausoleum of teeth, stale saliva.
What's behind the lips is a geyser.
Count from ten to one hundred.
Patience is impossible, a device to elongate eternity.
What's wrong with that? If the past comes back
we won't recognize it so when it disowns us,
everything will be mutual, evanescent, and when,
like a starlet, it blow us kisses, there won't be any hard feelings.

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Copyright © 2016 Richard Lyons All rights reserved
from Un Poco Loco
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission