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Baked on the half-shell like Oysters Rockefeller —
green, rich, and hotsy-totsy, we melt like Dali watches draped
on our palm-frond settees. It's a good thing we live
in the Garden of Eden.
The air is so clean, like Flagstaff in the sixties.
Tomorrow is the 8th day, and we
will have to pull up our socks and go to God's trunk show,
the one with black lace and leather bustiers,
featuring those girl models who mince to Le Jazz Hot,
wearing that 'failure to thrive' look.
We might even invent money and some sexual positions,
if this heat ever lifts.
Gabriel, the mustachioed caretaker,
came around to remind us:
No Pets. And, our lease is up soon.
He's got a mean horn and good connections.
We'll find some pleasant place east of here, he says,
with a lawn and room to grow, where all the animals
are sacrificial.
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