Coloring pine cones corroded gold,
A glass of scotch worn on my hand
A short man in a turban crosses my nose.
He shouts toward my feet, with tongue of cream,
"Find a happy medium! Or don't."

Pretending to know what I have once felt,
A bone inside of my elbowness
Frightens him to a purple plaid guilt.
I warn him the jicama in his head
Might eventually find its way out.

Children who skate through the sidewalk
May carry an oval green mirror, but
The turbaned stork plays country and western
And watches some wily french mooooovies:
"Or be surprised by a lover with a knife."

The trees that brushed my bitterest ankles
Now frame my smoky red pearls
With penurious adolescence of we,
"They weren't foldin' laundry, winkwink:"
The worst opiate is another person.