Melinda stands on an upturned bathtub
with lion's paw feet, addressing the crowd
in her waistcoat and maroon silk tie,
canny as ever.
'One, he parades his peccadilloes like carnival ducks,'
she announces, holding her palm out flat
as if presenting a tempting platter,
'two, he unhinges his jaw at night and stores it
beneath his pillow, where it has quite pedestrian dreams
of women in colourless raincoats and baskets of coins.
'Three,' she tugs at her tie like a noose,
'he has never rattled a stick along black railings.
It would never occur to him.'
'Four, he made cards for us all, scissors
gnashing late into the night. He loves us,
despite our indifference.'