Do You Mind?

The mind that for
I can only fathom a guess
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull,
behind eyes,
atop a body,
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussion
on the hard and hollow table-top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard, or courtesy.
This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.
I curse you, O chatterbox.
I curse you, and hope
both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous beanstalks
which yields nary a bean,
ever.

1-1

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