A beautiful woman strokes my chest, and says she
likes the ‘pretty colors of my boootyful scarf.’

‘Thank god’, I say. ‘I stole it from such an ugly friend.’
And it isn’t true what they say of literature:

That it saves the sick from dying with unlived bodies
still inside them. Outside the platform, we see the same

tedious arguments—clouds tumble over one another,
casting shadows over so many down-turned faces.

And it isn’t true, what they say of literature: That it was
made for the sick to have a language to themselves.

A beautiful woman strokes my chest, and says she
likes the ‘pretty colors of my boootyful scarf.’

-- Moneta Goldsmith