That’s My Bag

By Eddie Lahti

Affixed in a slightly rolled state,
only as gravity hangs it,
we call that end bottom,
but the backing,
with its sticky adhesion,
a custom hole cut,
to fit the modified,
end tucked
and puckered,
starfish kiss,
blows odoriferous,
sputters and spits,
at first,
surgical mucous,
then a browness,
slippery oozing
post deliciousness,
excrement and ferment,
defecation deposits.
There is a clear side,
window, which won’t hide,
the contents
aren’t divine,
under my shirt
away from
sunshine,
I don’t keep eyes
that pry from
the slippery pinkish,
candy red,
scallop squishy,
stoma head,
I flaunt what I’ve got,
not camera shy,
I’ll get shot,
lenses bend
the lit end,
and I’ll send
pics to
my friends.
The inside is real smelly,
but the side that touches
my belly
has a fabric
slip
so it can drift
across my skin
comfort to soothe
the discomfort within.

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