by Jack Collom
The nose . . . when I was young I used to be
A picker. “Blow that mess!” Investigate
That obstacle. Then boogerflip; set free
The inwards of nose passage, re–create
My registry of odors. . . . (Nasal bother
’Mid the flow ’tween brain and smile — or sneer.)
By now, the site is haunted: YEA, I’d rather
Bear one marble prow of import dear
And clear. But now, the ravages of age
Have gouged a habit; tenderness is rife,
And bubbling blood has grown to All the rage.
It’s like the intimacy of man–and–wife.
At last, the world’s problems come to rest
Within this laughable fouling of the nest.