Robert Verdon, #129, To Judy Garland

… don’t think I’m in the mood for a jingle;

my nameless lilac-scented powdered sunday is

blown away by an orchestra of nor-easterly russet flageolets

and a sudden tickling of the poached ivories;

toying with nonsense-words, a reverential quistering of plange

making way for a penitential enantiomorphism, I am

dreaming of flying off to Coolangatta this June

but really want to go much farther, like a fishing

lure breaking and streaking into a storm, cheered

on by the sea-bass; I’ve got my scales to keep me warm

and marzipan sands slope down to a scalloped surf, here on

the other side of the rainbow.

Thank you, Judy.