Thursdays broker hope for paraphrase:
she’s the cashier with a dictionary.
Blast-faced, you’re the brass-balled powder monkey
on her pea-green sloop of Saturdays.
Her whim, an asterisk in jam, denotes
the frailty of the Sunday dress’ virtue
clasped with sticky hands. You’re kind of blue
that Monday’s anomie spites antidotes,
but Tuesday’s full of grace. She sets you straight.
You bark, you great priapic seal who tips
up turtles topped with pachydermsa weight
turned dreadful Wednesday like a sky of black
birds til she plants the kiss of peace in spit
and ashes down the fallows of your back.