“O, That this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”-Hamlet, Shakespeare

FLESH POT

Born muscle bound

Backboned, map, matrix-

Mother intact,

Into private security firms-

Families, in slums, manors,

Stables, institutions,

To pirates or the pious,

We flourish. Raw teeth, germs,

Clubfeet do not impede us,

Rank and garbled speech fleeting

As tin jeeps, Barbie Doll drama.

Our struggle is tidy, tumult banal,

Pain prosaic, strife fueling ripeness,

Gauntlets passed through swiftly

Until the day we drop. Nominated,

Cornered, required to wither

Under the gun,

Succumb, for we remain

That tender, precious human

Flesh terminators must aim for.