I found my tonsils in a British Columbian bed and breakfast.
Wasn't it quaint the way we quickstepped all the way
and had high tea -- we were ballroom dancers then,
were capping satin shoes with coffee
(it felt like an Arthur Miller marriage),
restless in our starched sheets and iron-on tans --
We almost got detained by the pancake police
for handing out lemon-scented hairspray to a pompom squad.
We discussed splurging on monogrammed towels and,
just for me, permanent make-up: Cleopatra 365.
That's when a donkey clambered out of his mouth
and I got tired of telling him to "think Fred Astaire"
and he kept poking out his tongue in concentration --
some sort of fat cinnamon slug between his teeth.
His soul was a presumptuous Mickey Mouse tux --
what d'ya think pardner? Can I hit you in the shoulder?
Wanna skip out on the check tonight -- we can pretend it's prom.
That whole year full of recovering alcoholic Capricorns
doing their hardheaded little Pan dance
on the way into a Canadian Sizzler.