bone load

Harvested from the twisted branch
of a typical childhood,
my overcrop sells at Sunday market
for the lowest price I can name.
Guilt rapes my best efforts; it hovers, slides, crawls
and gets there before me, the faster i run.
More conniving, outspoken,
and doubled edged, it slashes prices like weeds.

Plain, flower smocked, drenched-in-ordinary,
tortoise-speed "i"
gains a hair of awareness
from this marauding truth
underneath which lives a bone load of rot.
Trusting the steamy heap of this story's survival,
based on my own ripe truth, I mark up the prices
for another day's profits.