Meredith Quartermain

Sonnet 86

Always hated that little window-tapper
Love with her thousand shots, her quick shades
Perched for the fur traders; why be snapper
to market morks of urges' masquerades
or Texas tea to pigeon yearning.  Ha, you say
she's a lasso of never-ending red stuff
and fish-eyes for heart sweet fire, a railway
to all the mustard in this skaters' handcuff.
Nah.  I say she's no soup for the safe in codgers'
college when it's too late to cop the edge,
and no one can heel the dive of time or reign
in the choker.  I've told her to the nines
her dodge'll never catch me; I'm past the dredge
of angel food, and riding plush on the A train.

The East Village Poetry Web