Its yellow/brown tones and its
vibration denote all the particular
fruit that the voice carries in its
wooden barrow. My voice
is a tired, old emissary dressed in worn
and elaborate robes and sent out to trundle
by a small boy, a cocky prince
(though he has but the toy parts of a child,
not yet soused in tangled, romping spells).
The ground undulates beneath his
wooden wheel. The trees, they serve up
green on every platter. The inveigling
emissary is a cuckold whose wife
the royal squirt pleases enormously while
the emissary is out earning a crust and
smoothing out differences.