Lipping Sumac

I talk to books and motes,
in meditation, it floats.
Dogeared among the dead.

As the ghost of mama listens
behind the spines of ignorance
boasting of Charles Baudelaire.

It's not central to the conversation,
just an affirmation of the madness
with my Alice Blue Gown.

Now there is a gal with bones
sticking to everything,
a little bit short in her lace
but a face to die for.

Yesterday's teapot,
today is a rodeo.
Lipping sumac
with only gums to smack.