By Laura Szabadics
Tapping feet
in their own fashion.
Sparkles
through my spine
up to the surface.
Jostle with anything
between my ears, fingers and toes;
our eyes.
I’ve already jotted down ideations
our beginning, middle and end.
I’ve intended to know our intentions,
I assume our assumptions in the
transparency of our transgressions.
I bubble for curiosity,
buzz for impatience.
My carbonation…
Vesseled in a flute?
Will I be decanted?
Will false flatness make you linger?
If not my stem that can move
my motor mouth will rev into sixth gear.
Oblivious to the spinach of my speech.
