Rebirth

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

I awoke at the feet of a man,
Clothes drenched and dirty.
Body fluids; human and machine in origin.

He sat tapping the curved edge
Of a one-stringed guitar, swigging
Lumpy milk from a greasy glass,

Barely flinching as the sour mess
Slid down behind the folds
Of his ageing throat, laughing,

Hand pressed against wall; cold brick,
Slimy mortar —
My only comfort in this rendition of rebirth.

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