Your nerves are sunflower seeds.
Each tick comes with a crunch,
clearing of the throat, clenched jaw.
You choke on the shells,
spit them back as words.
My nerves are chewing gum.
The problems proceed with each piece,
but I never mind undressing another issue.
I keep the nerves alive,
exhale into these lungs I call bubbles.
Once they pop, I know I’ve said too much.
I can’t imagine chewing gum with a mouthful of seeds.
Now I see, we’ve had a miscommunication.
I peel back the foil,
lay the piece on my tongue,
chew, chew, smile.
You clear your throat,
build up saliva and spit back at me.
My bubbles remain small, premature.
Your choking gets louder,
your hands filled with seeds.
Your eyes ground-gaze;
the choking turns to bronchitis.
Chunks of seeds are sprayed at me.
The room has stomached some more people,
some more viewers, couple more talkers.
They watch us.
They watch you spit at me.
I continue to chew and
keep it short and sweet.