Most People Only Have Five Senses

Two people, in their Sunday best, feed pigeons
children’s fingers. Each day delivers the world

as closed-eye visions like voodoo crucifixes
dripping down feng shui walls.

Words dodged like a bad comic’s tomato
onslaught. Each day delivers the world

as a slimy stage. The closed in audible space
between person and humanity.

Hands that once held each other tightly
now scarred, unknown. Each day delivers the world

as a dog bite. Depending how your life has gone,
you’ve been either puppy gummed or vicious mauled.

Either way, saliva’s aroma will cover vases of
flowers bending towards the sun. Each day delivers the world

as an infectious rhythm section swaying swiftly
towards a reminiscent scent, nostril scrapeage.

Blood reluctantly leaves its home. Blood’s trail
along the trachea leaves evidence. Each day delivers the world

as a lost tooth. The crimson doesn’t taste like cherries.
It’s a rust flavor now. The rain has tainted it.