She asked me why I spoke like rain
that falls in tropics, unobserved,
and if I knew the reason why
dessert is always lastly served,
And I said "I have no idea.
And no. At home, I eat pie first,
and if I'm hungry, still, eat more,
or maybe sit and slake my thirst."
She shook her head in sad regard,
and said, "You are a mellophone."
I knew quite well just what she meant:
a mobile horn or baritone,
Who specializes in off-beats.
I thought then of her piercing gaze,
and said, "And you're a golo spear."
She smiled broadly, quite unfazed,
And said. "How often have you used
that metaphor? It seems quite odd."
And I said, "Never." "All the same,"
she spoke, "It feels like pasquinade."
And so it was. And so it is:
my imitation of a mind
that can't be captured anywhere,
or anywhere that I can find
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