Whiskers
By Jamieson Ridenhour
27 April 2009
I was bearded with words.
Prepositions curled around
my mouth, and below
my chin participles
dangled.
I reveled in sideburns Whitmanesque,
and all admired the love-letter
moustaches, ironically drooping
over a hate-mail
goatee.
But the verbose foliage scrawled
along my jaw bored you.
With an eraser I shaved,
watching adjectives
scatter
and nouns pile below me
in the basin. Above
the wordy waste I stared
at the mirror, bald-faced and
mute.
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