Poetry Tastes Like Beans

I hunch
deader than the window frame
another attack
of poetry
parading my limpest drawers
a meal for the world
strung on the line in the rain

My fingers swell
to body bags
their ache of drying blood
forgotten trash
screaming louder
than Saturday night's
unpaid whore

For three days
creasing the rags of stale pajamas
I promised myself
I would shave
just to open the door
a chink of dignity retained
to appease the neighbors
if they swarm upstairs
to complain

I do not cook anymore
gulping junk from cans
errant teeth loosening
to the shrink
of vitamin starved gums

I have become my own
private guru on pain
soothed by Mozart's
stuttering strains
or Bach if I'm feeling brave
and between the lines
every word
every sentence
every stanza
tastes
like beans