When an idea strikes you
straight in the forehead,
forming an equilateral triangle
with your eyes,
then for a while

a minute

two

three, four

hours,

that idea is hidden away.

Your third hand
peels that thought off your forehead,
(so it does not startle the next
face you meet with its
not-quite-formed body)
and places it into the pocket
you have had since birth:
your mouth.

So it can grow and sprout
from the nice cave of moisture
you have in there,
you say to yourself.

As you litanize the tasks
before your eyes, that idea
will fester.

As you tumble into the covers
that very night, the thought
will begin to mold.

When the morning light
scrapes through the faults in your shades,
your pretty little idea will have rotted.

Your breath will reek with dead rat,
an unburied corpse of your scheme.
You will spit it out with minty toothpaste,
and floss it from the crevices between your teeth.
You won’t even cry a goodbye
as it dribbles into the sink with the
real dead rats
in the sewers
gone to
waste
as
mine
have