I have wishes to grant,
Stories to finish.
Dreams that are still waiting to come true.

I have nothing.

I have jokes with no punchline
No breath to breathe into my proteges,
Nothing to give to my lovers.

Bread and bridles debriding spittle
and little glass lentils made of starch and silica salt.

Bent
Tilted
Wrended and upended on a layer of greasy catfish.
I wish I were so slimy
And licked about with my whiskers out of me.

My meaty barbels are my eyes when I can't see.