The blonde duck bill pegs
snip sodden clothes succinctly.
No arguing with these snappy types
they affix with tumour tenacity
perch
blatant as last year’s bean crop.
Five pegs
are plugged into my mouth.
I am a power board tempting overload.
I am a round hole into which many pegs may be shoved.
Cut.
New point of view.
Now I see
I wear an apron
a spinnaker restrained by a bow.
Cut.
Zoom in.
Close up. Tilt down.
My nape is dark
damp-shiny with perspiration.
Arteries and tendons snake up,
one ear curls
a sleeping cobra.