I am not more right.
I do not know better.
I just can’t run with the baton I’m handed
when my leg of the race comes up.
It is gross, the baton.
Slimy, and it smells of rot covered by perfume.
I cannot carry it.
I cannot wield it.
I cannot.
You can pass it between each other
because you carry it low
against your thighs
and don’t look at it
and instinct makes the transfer.
Instinct never smelled a corpse to know it.
It hasn’t the time.
“I just can’t run with the particular baton I am handed”
Try
I just can’t run with the baton I ‘m handed
Better meter
LikeLike
Indeed, and will gladly do. This was just a one-donut poem. One of the “not gonna worry over revisions” variety.
LikeLike