The Ambivalent Queen

The parade of vanities is everything hoped for
and nothing gained or a few chipped teapots gained
but none to win you out of hock.

A Rolex with diamond fittings whispers

sweet somethings from its enjambed arch.
You in the back of the shop

whimper common apologies circumspect in
entitlement which everyone (everyone) enjoys
though none according to worth.

A professor stared at her breasts and to her protest
said, But you’re not wearing a bra,
which is not much of an abuse as things go,

things, unsayable [Rilke]. Life is brutish, nasty
and short-haired as a cat’s accordion, a lyrical
magnificence of purring.

Smirk at the brutish and nasty, cower
before faith’s illogical residence,
its solitary and universal habitation in

every room, its golden thread winding north
of parade and pawn shop. The cats leap,
and we are also almost willing to follow

but for palace corruption, flocked wallpaper,
blue wigs and powdered insincerities
so basic to this toy and plaything

as the ticking Rolex pours tea into
saucers and we make love in flowered cups
and illogic is giddy with hope.