Johnny old boy was a parakeet.
His trophies, the supposed women
he hoodwinked out of underpants, was ever on his lips.
Drained ears listened, laboriously, a thousand times to the once secret
of two hearts, two hearts that alone should clutch hard these clandestine moments.
The Mrs. Green is enviously tied
to her high school sweetheart; she was a gentleman’s dream,
but not this nightmare tale, this delusion shows how limited our eyes are.
Prudence, the good Reverend’s consort
was an assumed standard, but now…

Johnny boy boasted
of dipping wick in Coralline’s kerosene oil
and caused delicate glow on Shiki Futon, dancing glow
to soft music of two waist lines, my Coralline, sweet Coralline.
With careless lips he spilled tales and planted seeds of gossips.
Johnny was, and Coralline too,
and I vision the world for Johnny’s legend, waiting for time to tell my story.