Crys Silden

Things My Gob Might Say

I didn’t know the fare
I  slammed some coin and 
Stood amongst the 
bloated and sweating 
Stench in the air, dry, unseasoned 
of sex and salt and stockings
A bland potato soup bobbing heads 
To the rhythm of the curves and stops

I held on to the dirty pole in a pounding fantasy 
Germs are mutating ready to breach my body
I’m closed mouthed avoiding suckage of 
E. coli, Salmonella,  Herpes, Tuberculosis, Strep 
Covid, flu,  and god forbid, Staphylococcus!
Patience partner, you got this. 
Keep your gob tight and

know the vaselined chrome bar is your life line
from a tumble onto shit and nightly wanking jizz 
Floors and feet, floors and feet.
Now breathe and open your eyes
It’s time to spread your beaten brain
Squirting signs of infectious horrors 
No longer existing in the 50 years of
Running on that 1980’s treadmill

I smell home first. Fist pumping the greasy stop cord
Calves are snorting and squealing
Calling out for their mamas 
Herded,but not heard
having lived a less than semi life

We jerk. We stop
The pissway path is revealed.
I wind my way through the potato heads
 and look over my left shoulder
I catch a pud-whacker in a trenchcoat
Columbo style
The whites of his eyes flicker 
Tugging his popsicle raw
He breathes the poisoned air

I descend three steps and walk a short distance. 
I round the slaughterhouse corner. 
Headphones silencing the horrors
I  breathe in the deathly air. 
I climb the warehouse stairs. 
Hardwood and woodies
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