Imagine Sharks by Maurice Oliver
Let’s say it’s six months later.
The bellboy reappears as a Japanese amplifier.
A windswept shore is really Madagascar where
thick jungle meets romance wearing an
evening dress split up the side. This time
Renoir is there, deeply stroking orange to
purple on a plain paparazzo surface.
Nearby, gods sit counting upholstery buttons
in the shade. Arrows on the chair backs
point the direction to go. A stained horizon
deep green by itself with a robust harmonica
blues about it, hugs the cribbage board.
A comedian serves stale jokes on a platter.
Sand becomes cement in a later incarnation.
And by nightfall, the leopard-spotted fire
hydrant snoozes in the stroller. Even I yawn.