Oh God, you’re not another one of those June/

Moon poets, are you?  (She was hip.) The stress

on my end of the conversation?  Moon/

June, I said. But no, I’d not used them. Obsess

about it, if you must. Call me a snake.

Maybe I wriggled and hissed. The point is moot.

Say, yes, I might as well say: Let them eat cake.

The remainder of the dialogue: a beaut.

Something about edginess and glamour, Garbo

gone poetics, a freewheeling play

of signifiers. Sonnets? Passé as a hobo.

Oh. I said, I’ve written a few in my day.

Sure, she said, but do you still wear rhinestone

studded ditto jeans? Jean Naté cologne?