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Chewing Gum 
Colin Boyd

Compliments of weary eyed mornings, Those
Sunday morning blues.
Pervading woes mixed with
Sweet taste of aspartame,
Cancerous blues maybe.
That fits right in doesn’t it?
Or maybe it’s all just drama,
Those Sunday blues only are.
And there are blues for every day, The flavor
never lasts anyways,
Maybe an hour or two or more.
I have become a callus on tired hands, The dead skin
rubbed off of marching feet, Dropped on the ground and
pushed under, Swept away and forgotten about, Food
for the machine.

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