Sweet Claudine

Ensconced upon a throne
of emerald threads, sweet
Claudine cocks one petite,
pearl-adorned ear towards
a majestic plane tree, absorbing
the bonny verse of the chestnut
caped delegate through every
parcel of her slender, Sunday
morning frame.  Delight permeates
the air, plunging from the sky in
broad, even strokes until the paint
on his tenacious throat runs dry.
My sun-drenched siren turns her
almond eyes down to the tome
which she clasps between citrus
spattered palms, unaware that our
fashionable guest has abandoned
us in order to uncover his own


How those worthless objects, which
have lined many pocketed years, fall
apart under the scrutiny of a beacon
of ochre-heeled light, sneering high
above her cernuous neck.

Nevertheless, she positions those
precious millstones gently and tenderly
within a teal blue suitcase, just as one
would handle a delicate newborn, for
without them, she has no idea who
she is.

The Maunders of St. Gabriel Street

Damp, gnarled toes–partially unclothed–dangle
off of crumbling curbs.  One by one, flames are
extinguished as far as the eye can see.

Oblivion–the golden coin given in exchange for
fulgent constancy–is most toothsome at dawn,
when voiceless revenants creep softly over sheer,
sunken cheeks, entirely unacquainted with the
lustrous and hallowed oils that shall sanctify
this sunrise.