He keeps saying
He’s going to make it happen
She thinks his mouth is only flapping
Like the flapper deep inside
The toilet bowl
Hidden
With little control
With all the words floating
And swirling around in
The air
One good wind blowing
Could change the aroma in
The atmosphere
But he keeps saying
He’s going to make it happen
She hopes for his sake
It’s sooner than later
Prolonged straining is never
Good for any relationship
It hems us up or
Causes constipation of relating
Nothing gets out
And we die within
Stinking, empty words.
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