A Poem from Colin James: “Dinner at the Masocis’t Hand Peninsular”

                                               The smell between

fingers is unmistakable                                        

                                               and now my head aches

like an ocean’s despair

                                               at not being awarded

significant status,

                                               the stigma all abutting

in the flotsam

                                               that takes credit for, or

an investment share.

                                               Sometimes you can sit

and not smell it

                                               but for only a few days

in the short year.

                                               I have already

suggested long walks

                                               until suddenly

exploding within legal limits

                                               all over your a more

unique smell, most fair.