I choke on the decomposition,
the rotten, vegetal smell of her
home.

I’m in there every three months.

She, with her withered legs and
her *******, bewildered smile,
tells me that everything’s groovy.

But, I know better.

It ain’t.

She ****** herself on the regular.

She tells me that her man is all
sorts of lovey-dovey.

He ain’t.

He’s a *******
in sheep’s clothing.

There’s nothing to report though.

If she won’t say it,
neither can I.

I walk out the door,
that the caregiver holds open.

Ol’ Loverboy has his dentures
in his hand, wiping them down.

The desire to put them back in his
mouth for him is huge.

I imagine him choking,
like I am.

Not on that rotten, dead plant stench,
but on a fistful of incisors.

*

- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017