Hunting With White Nails
by Victoria Valentine


Her nails are strong and white.
She sips sarsaparilla from Doulton
with a curled tongue,
while a tasty breeze overrides
Pacific tides
lured by a slash in window dressings,
nuzzling neat accordion tapestry
in a mansion overlooking
green cliffs.
She has settled for midday tea
in his oversized drawing room.
As she licks the tip of her finger
flipping another page of the morning journal,
she reads other people's thoughts
with critical curiosity;
While a mutt in a ransacked house, downtown
circles last month's news, pacing
for a place to leave his mark upon her article.
Her Mastiff sniffs vaulted air,
above even her head as
she peels back another page of print and begins
to search the want ads.






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