It is a bosky autumn morning.
An elm reaches out and taps me on the shoulder
with one stiff, bifurcated apendage,
its hair an explosion of sales graphs.
'Don't forget about Gregory Finn,' it says
in an affected, schoolmasterish voice.
'He has the plump, benign face of a genie.'
I brush it off.
There is no need for this arboreal nonsense.
O Gregory,
how could I forget you,
my dear, repugnant hog of a man?
No comments:
Post a Comment