Poem: Draincup

[jakebe]

My neck is sore, and I wrote a poem about it.

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Draincup

Montgomery's in a bad way.
Thirty years now,
pouring himself into a woman
like a container, knowing she'd catch it,
knowing she'd keep it all.
He just found out she was a drain.
Even after all that,
he kept pouring until he was exhausted
and she said
"I'm sorry but I'm still not full."
And she ripped herself out in a big hole
of scattered silverware and bacon grease.
Montgomery's in a bad way;
he's confused because he's got no place
to pour into,
and there's nothing left to fill the drain.
Even if she was only a sink,
at least he had some place he could go.