Dissection

Despicable, squalid,

Sprawled across the weary table

With its worm-holes and buboes,

Bruised by moment and battered by measure.

You lie there, accusing me of everything.

Oozing, dripping, reeking,

Seeking scrutiny.

I spy on you through my microscope.

Self-importance dribbles out your

Putrid pores. It grows to a bubble,

Then slows to a pop.

I know that it takes a real man to whistle in the rain;

You were right when you told me that.

But I cannot trust you.

Sometimes it is sunny when it is cold,

Sometimes tension gets rolled,

Rolled up and balled

Like wool.

The others giggle or flinch,

But I just blink bewildered.

I understand you, frog,

But not them.