Stewing in North Tawton
Borges was underwhelmed by
Ophelia’s latest efforts; wasn’t
in the mood for her taut gibberish
of Gestapo knickknacks or swollen
pink tulips in Caesar’s bathhouse.
Her clammy fingers hammer away
at infinity; blubber and grate at this
heathen hour of day. They make his
frontal lobes wince like a clapped out
dartboard at the local corner pub.
He rattles off a sniggering note
to self—Sylvia could do with a good
shake in the sheets tonight; might give
the girl something to write about.
©️Orion Foote, 2022
Visions of Orion Poetry 