February Poem 2: The Poetry of My Asshole

My farts are a societal problem.
Like the hum of the walk-in freezer
Which also increased to twenty the gassy bass hits,
The fart artist knocks three times.
You can still hear me doing something
To fix, to recreate this as a work of art in taking a crap.
When I fart, the voice of the sea lifts without murmuring,
Inviting the soul as though I feel them not.

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