to call those wizened bumps atop my bra
a strawberry top, to go with the muffin top
couched lower down. A veritable meal on the torso,
I don't even have to go out. The sparse dove of truth
flies around our heads, looking for a place to land.
The shoulderblade sea cat prepares to pounce
on the Atlantic turkey wing, just off the coast
of some celebratory meal or other. Although we are
unequal, bittersweet is the way into the Lazarus jewel box
that lurks beneath the incised moon, your Peruvian hat
looking svelte and prickly alongside my heavy bonnet.
I hear you're driving a Shuttlecock Volva now.
Me? I have an old sedan I call Woody Canoebubble
because when I drive it in the rain the floor bubbles up.
(I named it Woody after you, as a joke, you understand.)
And that jacket, the one hanging on the bedpost,
is it leather, you wonder? If you dunno, donax.