The Girl with Wax in Her Ears

There is always one disobliging son
of a bitch; the trill gone out of his linsey-woolsey voice;
awash; plumb stuck; bricked-over
(no wonder). By this I mean a throat stopped-up,
clogged; a clever mason-muck,
resistant to flow (it gives me the willies).

From time to time, I too, have prayed
to shutter-up those godforsaken, tiny roustabouts
in my head, busy as bullets, conspiring
to keep me (no wonder) a heap of broken
sissy crumbs.