The poet barberess
with the mist frizz red excelsior fire
intoned for us, oh
about — something or other

“There are poems everywhere
    ain’t it neat? On gum wrappers
shopping tags, boxes of Freedman’s Pancake Mix
    I’ll read for you now
with as lank languorous a throat as possible
if you’ll permit me to stretch it a minute”

Her face, thought April,
pasting her own on the clock,
has the vivace
of apples underground
    a vim not unchannelled in
her delivery

“Nooote, tooo be chooood and not swallooood”

* * *

APRIL: Busy weekend?

JAMES: Oh, yes. One of my three-day bashes. By Sunday, Christ had to die again.

APRIL: This offends me.

JAMES: As a Catholic?

APRIL: I wasn’t invited.

JAMES: Well, I’m having another one next Friday. Bring plenty of alcohol, and a change of underpants.

APRIL: Oh, you!