Patron of The Arts
the mayor, his sequins glittering
like exposed canoe hulls, overturned
against an oil slick of velvet,
nodded, motioned
with his glass of dirty
bacardi towards the razor
blade lying
across a daffodil-painted saucer.
over schedule. under budget.
this is her…no. our brainchild, he whispers. my doing. oh, look at
its ankles, its muscular form—arching with neon vests and
receding pushcarts over the wooden stoops, the
mango groves. a real thoroughbred. yet she
is too indignant, too shy.
she
was lying six stories below
lungs inverted, exposed like a nectarine
rind, alveoli bunched up and
expanding,
centipeding skywards along its open
panes. moist. saline.
jam-like.
page revision: 1, last edited: 02 Jun 2026 22:28