Poetry: Cream of the Crop

The Aleut said mocking, “the corner’s not cornered, it’s the cream of the crop.”

“But the Bunsen’s not burning, and dear, the mop has rot and muff!” I fought.

My argument fell a-light on the floor, for the Aleut saw dimly my sight.

A cornering corner has no use for power if only to transpose to flight.

With a wave of the hand, the treachery lied, the corner disappeared just so.

And Beaning, reeling, made meaning of stealing the Corningware down below.

I sighed at the leer, twice more for the year, and understood the intrusion.

Faith for the thing that sight couldn’t hold was really more the conclusion.

Brave face peddled on and corner spun left, frisky the words for naught.

For the Aleut’s last hope were my eyes understanding, “it’s the cream of the crop.”

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