Sooth-Fruit Juice

Why did Truth start and then stop?

Did you drop too theatrically down

on a knee overzealously pleading

with her to impart every trick of her

vast artistry? Did you take it too sadly

to heart when she swept her attention

away from the simpering you to relay it

all billowingly out to me? Cannily, I had

uncovered the name she adored being

called, the discreetly Victorian “Verity.”

It conveyed just the right sainted scent

of the sort of acclaim she’d eternally

sought. Music and sense which attended,

with art, her exalted position and fed her

astute philosophic sweet tooth. And oh!

I so wanted to know that she knew that

I knew she believed I believed – for her

her sake, and sooth’s sake – in The Truth!

Forsooth! So, erasing all trace of asperity,

I dared at last to entreat her: “Oh Verity!

Sip with me every last drip I can squeeze

from the juice of the fruits of your Sooth!”

She assented – and now we relentlessly

do what we can to endow all the rest

of the World with the brew: pouring her

wondrous libation (iced) into small cups

for a nominal price to the lost likes of you

(should a sip of the Truth be what you

would pursue), here and there at the odd

summer street fair and carnival booth.

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