Leveled my toothpicked eye
at the mascherino spectre
of lipstick frisking the highball.
Me, unused to hard labour,
seeking hubris in a neighbour,
a neighbour that calls it drywall.
She got into it with the art director,
something about mortal fate
being difficult, to which I relate,
having given up my virginian
over a difference of opinion;
a St George’s raised too high
over the allotment; a protector
not a trustee; a clinch in Whitehall.