Cricket and pills.
A Huguenot calls.
We talk balls.
Share our ills.
I do not wear lace since chiffon left.
Yet the memory of soap suds abides.
The medication commences just
after lunchtime on the second day.
Two down eight to go. Too high to control:
off the mark. breathe a sigh of brief relief.
Night is right.
Theodolites at dawn portend a repast
of frogs and lizards.
We shall heat them up before we eat them up
watching for triremes from the lighthouse penthouse.