Chatterina plucked pregnant pauses
out of the lips of good neighbours
and knitted them into
a thousand words per minute.
Himself measured words
his phrases had short back and sides,
his verbs were anorexic
his nouns were Hail Holy Queens,
he mouthed the tight-rope of caution
he was fond of the silent `e'.
Chatterina was tell a tale and tell it well
and wrap it round a light-pole
and weave it up and down this estate
type of person. On top of that she was clean.
One day she was telling us about how
the Corporaton tried to evict her
because she wasn't wearing the orange lipstick
set out in article two of the leasing agreement.
She was galloping to the finish line
with words jam packed with pig-eyed plurals and steam
when a frog got caught in her throat.
After the stroke
himself finished her sentence.
