is like trying to decipher the scrawl of someone
lying face down in their own vomit, pen in hand,
making strange marks on the sidewalk.

People passing by look at this someone
with a sense of profound sadness, and out of pity
leave such items on his back as rotten apples,
broken trophies, dead lizards and plane tickets
to flights that unfortunately went down
without a sole survivor.

And when they arrive home they go to their library
and take out the one recipe book that includes
how to cook the innards of a loved one
and have it come out as a stew that will last
throughout the week or until the person decides
to commit suicide by ingesting toothpaste
or something similar that will have the desired effect…