This Ain’t It

This place, my home,
narrowing to the width
of a sick dropping falling
from a sick hole. 

Or, it was always this way
and I’ve gotten bigger —
not much, but enough
to see difference 

between what I used to think 
was vast and what I see now as
already small  but tapering off even more
before it falls to the bowl,

the smell noticeably
more acid than rose,
now that I know
what a rose can be.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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