...or maybe it's the syrup of poppies prescribed by a doctor with a quick pen and the understanding that winter colds must not be allowed to reach the chest.
because once down in that coal-burning furnace, they take on a new life of their own
all private and fun, smelling of the 19th century and never coming up for air.
Take your crusty nose and hardened mascara
your throat engorged by Italian ice and the irritants of good manners,
"A little better, yes."
the best way to get anyone off the phone is to hock up a lung.
that'll teach them to leave the soup and just effing go.
thanks for understanding.