"This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." - Dorothy Parker


He was in the mob of bachelors

That chased her from bush to tree

To the top of the block wall,

Chattering sharply, shoving

At each other's frantic displays,

Their wings and chests held high,

Strutting so she'd notice. And

For some reason she chose him.

Was he the biggest or the loudest?

Did he shove the hardest or was he

Just the brightest of a dull bunch?

Only she knows or maybe she doesn't,

But somehow he became the right one.

Now she rides the swaying cypress crest,

Her eyes glittering dark glass,

Her tiny body warm and quiet,

Waiting for his attentions. And

From a lower branch, he flutters up

And on top of her, a soft pressure

As he dabs his secret organ

Inside her, quickly, rhythmically.

In moments he flits down

To a lower branch,

Rests, and moments later, up

And repeats the fluttering climax,

Again and again.

Then the phone rings. I answer and

When I look back for them

Through the kitchen window

They're gone.

Rochelle Cocco