The nosegay of chrysanthemums sags
like an accountant at his adding machine,
like the grey flab pooling round a Prohibitionist's throat,
like a pedlar at midsummer.
'So that's a tentative... no?' he says,
but Daisy's face is a whirlygig of disapproval;
Donatello smirks through the gap in her bath robe.
So Colin bought her a Turtles T-shirt, thinks the suitor;
of course he did, the priggish ninny. The scrape of gumboot on gravel,
the grind of the automatic gate as it jaws open
like a beetle's black mandibles.
No comments:
Post a Comment