A slow-tongued poet appears
To have taken his seat
Inside my head.
Before he lets it slip
Between my lips or
Into my pen,
He turns and tastes each word,
Chews and ruminates
Each syllable.
Simple sentences from another's
Conversation pause, drawn
To long round sounds,
Stretched like fresh gum,
Nearly senseless in their
Wet, sticky forms.
He cares not that I am left
To sort the rotten from
The well-flavored ones,
Each sound broken down,
Edges bent and blending
With its kin.