As the 1st of June awakens him, he chances to espy,
suspended slyly from a stained glass Tulip lamp,
a white-haired lady hanging what for her was high.
He thought he ought to pay her heed, revamp
her tale to fill its vacancy. He got her in Tulum,
a secret amatory trip a year before to Mexico
(which had a lotta vava and a fair amount of voom).
She was in a tourist shop’s small room: a hex - a show,
an oddly lewd and unapologetic silent Yo! mutely braying
she was dead: Hey you (it seemed to him) said she,
give up your silly pleading and your pious praying:
before long you’ll be just as dead as me.
Poor sorry thing, abandoned in the giant hive
that misbegotten millions wrongly call ‘their’ city
(wasn’t theirs). She wasn’t dead, she’d never been alive —
remanded to a man telling lies, stranded in his pity.