I am a dry well.  Tangleweeds
grow in my gut; spin there, growing;
rise in my throat and choke me; and
spill from my mouth, stretching somewhere.
Humans pass by me, offer glances,
then rescind them.  The young ones--
the little ones--stare longest.
Though in all my imaginings
I have not quite felt like a person,
I know the question in their minds:
"Why is that thing still there?
Nobody uses it anymore."