Sonnet XLVIII: Oatmeal

Seeds, like grains of sand, are catching
on ridges, soft and solid eggs
slipping down the throat, the retching
esophagus, the hands, the legs,
coating, glopping--globs are dropping--
into stomachs--plop! plop! plopping.
The longer that you put it off,
the colder it will get; you cough,
choking on the solid, slimy,
congealed, and slickened vesicles
that only perseverance pulls
down the gullet, dirty, grimy,
and moving, squirting through the cracks
like babies born in sloppy sacs.