To the Gum Smacker

In the corner of my eye, I see you smacking,

smacking that synthetic rubber square,

no, ball,

no, some other shape that only your floundering tongue can form.

Pushing it through your teeth,

sucking it back into the dark, damp, pulsating abyss where words emerge shallow



and dull.



You pry open your mouth like some prehistoric creature about to

yawn and my heart backs away into the corner of its little chamber away from the impending danger.

I brace myself to be showered with saliva that will come

bursting from the pathetic bubble that I know will soon appear.



And there it is,



looming next to your head, the unearthly soft pink sphere, slightly dented.



Then our eyes meet.



I knew I should not have looked at you, but the sight is too nauseating to keep from my eyes.

Now I will pay the mind-numbing price of



trivial conversation.



Your mouth opens again, this time to speak.

I see the pink gunk splattered on your teeth begin to recede because the air that you are stealing tows it.

Before I could raise my hand in an effort to cease the horror, the school bell rings.

I murmur a quick, “See you later,” and I skip out of there while feeling the spit in my hair.