tapping / pot

while tapping on my belly

with a wooden spoon, i

hear the bellowing of

churning air and fluid.

it is at times, harmonious

a melody; most sweeping.

fashioned in a series of

expected rhythms

and rhymes.

on most days, it echoes the

thump of porridge dunked

into a wet pot, simmering

over a slow fire. mostly,

it attempts a flightless flee –

constricted by only the

narrowing walls of my

lined insides.

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