A Fable

Purveyor of  rot and whatnot,
entrepreneur of  I forgot,
with wrists hard as hammers — 
that birthmark a slot — 

grip it, strip it, flip it hard — 
ramp my shard.
If  fear be sexy, a synch
& a match — 

Gone the way of  wax & worms — 
gone like November 2011 — 
sweet by nature, mean by culture — 

“Goodbye, luck, you idiot,”
said the Fox to the Grapes.
“I love you,” replied the Grapes.

More Poems by Anna Maria Hong