Well, la-di-da, Marlene Hatcher . . . I came up to the infirmary to see how you’re faring in shaking the hepatitis, you been heavy on my mind languishing in the park smoking ganja, thinking up the next song, something about water in the forest of high romance.
How fetching you are in your robe showing a little cleavage, but my gaze floods with your African sheen as you lick a forefinger to turn the page to the next sepia-soaked photograph, remarking your people were also a little Navajo, and I say Oh? and you prod me with ten bare toes.
(28 March 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander