Below is a poem by Roscoe Feathersby, an old acquaintance (I do not say “friend” because I’ve never actually met him, only occasionally received poems and other pieces of writing from him).
–Roy Herndon Smith
One could say
by Rosco Feathersby
One could say
the world’s one’s
oyster,
but,
with a slurp, it’s
gone.
Besides,
one desires not
snot.
Then again,
to be the
pearl
in the rainbow
white
womb,
that would be
quite
heavenly,
until a
knife cracked the world for a
fork
to rip one
into
hell,
or, perhaps,
to be the pearl of great price lying in purple
plush,
drowned in adoration—
one could be that wonder
lush.
Well, until
one got
bored.
Rather,
be the
possessor
of pearls and all
that jizzy
jazz.
One could say
the world’s one’s
oyster
dust 