Perhaps it's the way his colostomy bag hangs
off his waist like John Wayne's pistol in Rio Bravo,
or the trail of **** left when it ripped last Monday
from his chair to the refrigerator.
He must have noticed,
he turned right and filled the sink with feces
and called over the nurse.
She pioneered along the trail,
and fit him with a new bag.
More **** oozed
through the tube
filling a fresh bag.

I sat there and licked
my nasal drip into my lips,
hoping the sparkle of my snotty glossy shine
would catch your eye,
like your favorite **** rag
in a line up of church bulletins.

The putrid lavender like scent
swimming through the air like flying fish,
allows me to dream
quicker than any drug.

I dream of the day where we both lay naked
with our old wrinkled skin connected like praying hands
where your feces and ***** flow freely to fill in epidermic gaps.