Mumble


His speech must be hard work:  filing down
the sharp edges of words, gluing them end to end
into a necklace of soft smooth beads.

The rest of us jerk
through our sentences:  start and stop
like a student driver.  Our syllables
drop from our mouths like building blocks.

When he speaks,
I watch the changing window of his lips for the secret:
something foreign and gooey,
or perhaps a tongue so large it crowds
the entire cave of his mouth,

but the lips never open more than a sliver:  flashing pink
landscape, fluid and curvy soft:  a perfect place for hiding things.  
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