Every month I feel the bubble,

I feel it, skin-thin,

and when it breaks

it oozes,

oozes muddied self in a puddle,

sticky and mournful and unpleasant smelling.

I am forever reduced to goo.

Everything is round,


all membrane and mucus,

then spilled onto the mundane floor

and swallowed there,

sunbleached white on white wood planks.

Damn lines all straight and neat.

Where is the spark?

My electric jolt?

As I sit

in this mediocre house,

walking my mediocre mile,

in this mediocre life

with my mediocre smiles.

           – wg