How do the highly refined do it?
I listen to them, watch closely
and find nothing incongruous.
Shucked of all coarseness,
seemingly free of appetite,
curiosity about the Dollar Store.
They leave the impression of being
naturally combed through but
I want to believe that stuck
on the remotest of country roads
they might just spit or (egads!)
stoop to nearly pick a nose.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment below.