[23401 – 23500]
Calloused under the meagerness of her
verdigris bandana, Wheatley loved to vetch,
“I’m as acclimated to this oboe
as a snowflake in Bahrain. Can’st not I
have overpaid?” Undeterred, she’d honk all
weekend long & with the unbreakable
torsion of a bacchanalian condor
would fulminate, reflexive, until her
bookmaker recanted. “Heh-heh! Catfish
with anise & dill! Postcards from OPEC!
Shit! A pimple!” Over by the Cilician
waterworks, her underpaid ladies-in-
waiting would trawl for squid & such-and-such
& winnow more flavours from the grot of the lune.
Composed 7-26-14
At the Musarium 