The Prince Of Orange

A wetted wood & moonclouds

tutor the sky pearlish. The footling

churned up day, a settled exhaust

affixes my body to the chair. Evening,

a visit from the Mixture Ghost.

The Mixture Ghost, he prefers

ginger peach tea, shakes off his cloak

of haunts at the sliding door as he

poorly describes a sad song he cannot

seem to shake out of his ear.

I feel for the old boy. True, even

the most affecting melodies, repeat

them many times over, they shake

out brackish as long island teas

reciting unedited poetry. Heya

Mix, how long are you staying?

Drink up: I got a poem to finish,

you are tracking earworms into

the house & I barely have the

extroversion for this last quintain.