They open their mouths
like the world owes them an answer.
Maybe it does.
Teeth like little white knives,
chewed down by sticks and time,
tongue flapping like it’s got something to say.
It doesn’t.
But still, they climb the table
like gods in the wrong mythology,
demanding sacrifice
in bacon, ball, or bone.
I’ve known men
less honest
than a Lab mid-yawn.
There’s no grand metaphor.
No big truth.
Just a good set of gums
and the nerve
to grin at the void.
