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