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Poem: A Salt Seller

white head bust
Photo by Zack Jarosz

I swear the worst sort of illness, 
is one you never quite recover from
It lingers over tea,

overlong

Leaving damp hand towels on the bathroom floor, 
and a gaping hole where one's guts should be
A disrespectful guest

A vagabond salt seller
Door to door, with trinkets and buttons
Just to send one to their bed to swoon

and suffer

Oh, but through the years, I have learned to sew, 
and a million maidenly things to do
nibble at my day

Yet my mind, is still...
Minitroubadoura 2019 (uj)

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