He'd wheel it up just before sunrise,
slip a wooden wedge beneath a wheel
to keep it steady, then unbutton
the dew-damp tarpaulin.
Nothing was for sale:
not the clamp jars with wolf fetuses in vinegar
nor the conical hats made from pasta;
not the clockwork smelting plant
nor the incontinent scrimshaw ballerina;
not the godshoes
nor the primping stick;
not the hasped mouth
nor the candlegun;
not the impossible radio
nor the compendium of improprieties bound in hogsflesh.
He'd just stand there,
gloating over it,
hissing like a goose.
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