Running a finger along the mantelpiece,
I think of my testes, and Lent.
This year, I decide, I will give up verbs,
committing to a month of rich
and static portraits.
But not yet.
'This,' I declare, showing my smutted whorl
to the assembled murder suspects, 'is not dust -
it's powdered eggshell!' My elecution
is terse but sexy. I let the implied denunciation hang.
'And where does one find powdered eggshell?'
I asked, rhetorical as hell, 'In an hourglass!'
all eyes now on Old Father Time,
that gobshite, you bastard, I've got you.