arcane matter out of place

As we sat trailside, embushed,

surveilling the night for signs of life meriting ambush,

what appeared to be a lantern light appeared,

bobbing in the distance of night's dark water.

Ramald, our token amputee,

wanted to have a closer look,

but we conferred and advised against it.

Who knew but that our new mark

could be extremely dangerous, perhaps

a woman carrying her husband in a vase, or

worse yet, clutching a snow-globe to her chest.

Our small band could not afford to brook such chances.

The air was heavy with moist heat, positively

orthodox in its weight.  The smokers among us

tried their best to suppress expectoration.

Others were more relaxed, I suspect,

dozily dreaming of longhouses

and fresh bread baking over a fire subliminated

by the approaching lantern light,

while Ramald quietly spoke of a dream he had:

"Being a husband makes

the free use of phrases like

'menagerie of pussy' problematic,

and I am no longer an ornament for barstools.

For instance,

disorganized ladies of sleep

come bearing temporal messages.

I am more interested in their hairpins

than what they have to say.

They pester me with daylong whispers

in a silvery tongue I can not uncrumple.

I become irritated with their insistence,

tell them they should wear more hairpins.

Imperturb, they reveal to me

their blueprints for a Trojan brothel.

I question the wisdom

in showing me their hand.

And don't they know that it is they

who must come to me?

I look around to find

I am comfortably seated in a brothel."

We had forgotten the approaching light.