Jean Savory savoried her way
down the dipstick nines,
slave to fashion,
romance novelist of the royal
climes, formulaic
congress after the egress -
a thrifty mess indeed -
chatter-worthy
back door mamas
in they classic poils,
inching their ways into
the deep ends,
bicameral ration toadies,
casual spelunkers,
situational ethics take a back seat
to page 79,
a mighty hurrah
for petty metals - since
you were asking -
dribble that sauce over
your past tense
vegematics:
the last clime was
roses and tartan plaid,
a carousing tarantella -
page 152 might have
grown an inch or two -
she was ever not when
she was naughty, it figured
gaily into the margins
for error -
grace on 193,
afterwhich aftertimes twas
anyone's guess,
your burden,
his sancho panza
their missing person,
her inarticulate, ghostwriterly, astro-criminal
crimes.