Tonight's Poet Corner: Sponge

Sponge
by Belinda Roddie

It's a kind of shame you can't sponge off,
the suds collecting until the foam solidifies
and turns to scabs on your raw thighs,
chafing together as you try to run,
but the running exhausts you after a while
and you have to face the reality that if
you aren't ashamed, you won't survive.

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