In every town and every time her songs
enchanted children’s hands to dance and weave
until Boghul with oysters up his sleeve
fell in among them, bound them with his thongs
and spirited them away to study Greek.
The lady cleared her throat, began to speak:
“You man of Spanish moss and grenadine,
you golfball long forgotten in the grass,
you persecuted multitude of green,
I thank you for the sacred rite to pass
these children on to you, but do you know
how cabbages and rutabagas grow?”
The children filtered home by ones and twos.
Boghul redid his belt and tied his shoes.