Small town talk’ll take you down
tie you to the tracks
twist your ruined reputation round its
rusty cold rails
and watch the bloody bits of you
spatter up against the neighborhood.

It’ll pick its teeth with
your splintered bones.

No need for the undertaker,
small town talk’ll dig you six feet deep
before the Grim Reaper even knows you’ve
gone missing.

And it’s somebody else’s spittle, too,
the drool of other people’s agendas.
It’s the force of the Pharisees,
the meat of the mafia,
the bread and butter of political lobbyists

and the pulse of the petty.

Cast yourself on God, sorry soul,
if ever those wet wagging tongues
find you on their feeding frenzy—
theirs is a feast with few leftovers.

Only the resurrected get to leave this gluttonous graveyard behind.