Her Wicked Curveball
Some said it was the break, impossible to read,
as if a sudden breeze grabbed it by the neck,
spinning it east or west before shoving it
south into gravity’s mouth. Impossible to read,
Beauty’s Saddle
Beauty’s in the next room
and everyone’s enchanted.
She’s sitting on a piano, singing
an Irish drinking song, sober
as a Monday morning.
Her silk cocktail dress is singing