Plestiodon Skiltonianus

Creature
comforts released
into wild,
never held again.

Repent, lather, repeat.

Stumble
through feathered
hoops,
some scaly thing
rampant
in the coop.

What
gave
way?

Undone
from giving—
given been got—
gotten so rotten—
rotting, gotting—
live or get die.

Towels brew
mildew in a disused
corner— there go my
soggy hopes— hoping
stuff to grow
from that dank chamber.

I writhe and hiss
in the folds of my stink.

Not minding reeking
for a week or three.

So long as my nose
does not relax its grip
on the faint stench
of survival.

A livid living thing,
dispossessed by animal
desires to reproduce.

If fade from this world,
let my dick be the first
thing to be— cocked,
shaved, snipped, shaded,
inundated, separated,
in any case
no longer needed.