A seamstress weaved her ill-fated hands
seamlessly
back and forth,
upon the satin sheets fresh layed
Blanket upon blanket
upon
blanket.
Until, from beneath them,
born into the fresh air of a cedar lined bedroom,
popped six legs of ham:
each one a stockbroker.
All liars, no doubt.
And these legs of ham
with their hats
and shoes
and ties
took the seamstress by the foot.
Grabbing so
delicately
upon the droop of her dress.
They pulled
and tugged
and tore down
the seamstress'
frail body.
Ever so neatly
in a large pile.
And crawled into her ears
(as most legs of ham do)
(such as those in
their hats
their shoes
their ties)
What they did there?
No one knows.
The answer lies
strewn across the floor
deep inside
the
l i f e l e s s
frail
body
of the seamstress.
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