Worrying About My Bacteria

Let's quietly let our neighbors
do their own thing
they are shy
we keep to our own


And the Bishop at church sits at his desk
alone
waiting

You did not go today.
You made a sandwich.

You did not confront your fears.
You faced them.
With a soft puppy.
With soft jaws.
And a faint smell in its fur.
That you barely recognize.


You eat the sandwich.
And watch Maze De La Roche.

She stands there, short hair.
Loves you for who you are.
The failings of her sex uncrecognized.

She hates to be touched.

I am guessing she was never lesbian.
She hates touch.
She mistrusts.

She wants to be pure.
But the bacteria circle around her.

And even in isolation.
When the puppy smell is gone.

She no longer has a use for you.
the wicked intimacy of child's play
inside her intestines

and fire works against her skin
she sees the sing she has become inside

and it burns