She sludges through a bowl
Of lumpy oatmeal features.
Disagreeably down-turned lips,
Lukewarm, drooping eyes,
And pasty double chins.
How could they live so blandly,
Swallowing their congealed curds
In sleep-walking resignation?
Instead, they really should thank
The pine-needle air in their lungs,
Their unfaded spectrum of vision,
Their limber gait and equilibrium.
She wants to shake them inside-out
So that they will open their bleary eyes
To fiery cinnamon leaves,
Vines laced with pregnant drops,
And silky-down colored tissues.
This is life, she cries. Live it.
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