You stuff into your pelican pouch
all manner of grievance,
fly them along
to nourish you
as you go,
little living bits of rage
to be swallowed whole.
Your teapot steeps black,
dark brew of outrage
sipped and sipped.
You steer towards me,
shirtsleeve a bloody banner
of fierce intent,
a wound you do not wish to cauterize.
My panic has been sealed
in this careful envelope.
Upon receipt, its contents will fill your
self-righteous sails and thus satisfied,
you will be blown on your way.
