For The Lady With Blood On Her Bib

you treated me like
your personal buffet
served on a tray
with little toothpicks
bone
fragments
pick your teeth
and grin

you wanna toss
leftover
scraps of me
to the
bitches in the
yard hounds
that won't shut
up
and crap
everywhere

crystal chalices and
paper cups
bring in the staff
to clean up
the mess
pull away from
the curb
in your hearse
who are you saving
that velvet crypt
for anyway?

tidbit in time
morsel of your
forever
you are too
refined for
gristle like me
i can't pretend to
be beef
wellington
or canard
l'orange

can i have my
toothpick back?

i need something
to remember
you by and it
was the only
thing
holding me
together

 © John Kennan 1-5-20