Musty Part

It were that legs beneath the medical
Blanket had critical dimension—gone
Under torches was hot audio, and picking
At his molar bends his face into negligent
Surgery. Founded himself upon ritual
Porch lights couldn’t illuminate, but a cast
Blurs the child’s unattended evenings,
Wouldn’t it, the itch, welcome filth?

Often flagrant, urging, coming, pally
Nurses know his salt preferences and ignore
Them. They must. When one departs,
Who would one—and why—tell so, what for, for
Dinner, I suppose, that is what is

Logan Fry (© 2013)