Sailing on a caravel of dreck she moves
Slick as silken nougat and satin secrets, and leans
Into muffled muted holms that box her dreck
Of fustion and peat and steamy nimbus.
His stern designed as accolade bright
Seems stolen from the mirrored lilac,
Exposing loquats that bounce, reflect and glance
Off languid parvenu as they dance.
Turrets and tycoons and passing rondeaus
Inducements now unfold in muck
Both elegant and controlled
The mixing scherzo of fluids and rare spillage.
Jazzy sedans unwrapped in indigo and teal
Transform the darts in forte and fellow,
Until it seems they glide
Upon a measured turning whine—
Where dreck is spun into money real.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * All Rights Reserved * 10.2.14