Ode to a remarkably large lump and several smaller flakes of crusty dried blood I dug out of my ear last night.

Oh, as I worked in factory clouded
with spoiled and rancid coolant
the greenish slime
deposited itself on my every surface
my clothes reeking and nasty
my skin purulent and pasty
I swabbed at my ear canal with gusto
removing slime and froth
and at one point, painfully piercing eardrum
without my knowing.
On the plane, the lowered pressure
renews the bleeding,
drips from my ear onto my black shirt
and frightens the gay flight attendant
I swab ever so delicately, trying not
to renew the wound, but the canal has a roadblock,
an obstacle to the progress of the Q
Six weeks I play host to the clump
gently nudging from time to time
when at last the sweat and time and loosened epithelium
cause the lump to break free and rattle about, and
the careful intervention
of a bobby pin
and the lump is free
a chunk of blood so dessicate
it is more black than red, and shaped like a tiny burrito
I called it Herb, and I may wear it on a chain around my neck
or simply keep it in a glass vial with my change and tie-tacs,
see if I don’t.