That Toddling Town

Magnificat Mile

Here, where vendrenuit stalks vendredi, 

she's on display, skirts all the rage.

The outskirts, half-razed

to lofts and lowing fogbanks,

mix laughter, slaughter,  brand,

and brand.  She totters in her skirts

called by lights,

     You know what you want !

one link in the food chain of desire.

     (Who told you what you want ?)

Her glassy eyes slide up the glassy spikes

into the black-and-blueblood sky

where flightless deco buttresses allude

to nothing that she knows of.

She's starving, stilletoed, damp

as a newborn calf.  Her eyes

dart like shiners; half-

blind, allured and alluring cultivar, hot-

house Rose of Charon, disingenue,

lean on the hog butcher beside you

the bristled one who

is ever sans souci !

The lagoons of his pig paradise drain

into the cash green city ditch of Farm Tech,

where logos ripple backwards among

schoolkids learning

where our meat comes from

(and where it goes) 

She holds her silk purse close. Hermes

psychopompos, hog butcher

of the over- and underworlds,

guides her past the tempting lights,

telling her where to look,

and where not to, down,

to read the crayoned cardboard

homeless

pregnant

and meet the glance where favor, blessing drown.

8.27.13