Gurgling in the belly,
the song of hunger.
Squinting into the sun,
buckled in the speeding car,
measuring life, smelling time,
I hunch over with feeble coughs,
sniffing, wheezing, hacking out
gobs of mucous, like a man does,
then falling through the darkness
I understand the relevance of God, for some,
like flowing through dreams and gurgling.
The stain of lunch upon my chin,
I wonder if I will speed into oblivion,
into the timeless void,
choking on an undigested hoagie.
I see stars, not angels.
They sleep in the daytime
so they cannot warn me
not to eat and drive.
Perhaps I will gurgle myself
Life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating
– O. Henry