My old body parts get attacked
by germs, hoards of shrieking barbarians
find an opening, a weak spot,
and stream in like an icy river.
Body parts are provoked to fight off
the miniature barbarians,
but they can't fight a jug of wine.
The warm fog slips in through the front door
and settles in around my thinker,
muscles weaken, vision fades,
the jug takes a willing victim every time,
and the barbarians wait outside.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Jug of Wine
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7 comments:
This is very clever. What a wonderful melding of words and images.
Oh, yeah! I've felt that fog slipping in through the front door! Love the way you said this!
Clever approach. Nice
barbarians at the gate, I hadn't thought of using a jug of wine to keep them at bay.
Whenever my body gives in to germs I feel like it's treachery. Your poem makes it look more like treason. I like it.
Like the way that this poem has been versed and the image given to germs as barbarians
Thank you for a good read Mike, but then again I would expect nothing less! Outstanding imagery. How have you been these past years? (35 or so I think!)
Lois: doing well and hope you're the same. It seems like only a long time ago.
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