The Uncomfortable Truth
Precious stigma,
never forgiven.
The smell of fresh grapes gives way
to stale ones
worming around in his mouth
like words, but he feels
no giddiness anymore,
only pain lessened.
He shouts down passers-by with
an uncomfortable vehemence
as pigeons, doing their dance, disperse
in front of his venom:
his paranoid diatribe
urges them into flight
a grey, brown, and cobalt scuttle
that settles once I pass by,
head down,
avoiding eye contact.
And I don’t like what this says about me.
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