Just above a waistband
sits a most peculiar thing.
The most common human blemish
whose lauds we oft forget to sing.
Some are small and dainty,
pushed neatly in like a dimple
in the desert of skin.
Others hemorrhage outward,
squishy and pale,
the extra flesh bloated
by strange and unnamed
****** juices.
Often adorned with a jewel or a stone,
the awkward interruption
of the otherwise plain torso
is unconsciously celebrated,
for it serves us all
a greater purpose.
Reminding each person
from where he came.
The living proof that we are all connected,
at one point or another,
to someone else.
