The Point

by Bill Yarrow

(for A, B, and C)

I stood on the Point and rooted for the truth.
Everywhere were starfish angels, each one in my way.
The sun, like a drunken bum, stumbled across the sky.

          If you're not any more interesting sloshed
          than you are sober
          then what's the point?

My model was late for her sitting. "You're like a library book—overdue!" I said,
"Then I'll take off all my clothes like I did for you last time," she said,
"and then I'll be re-nude."

          If you're not any more interesting frizzled
          than you are frozen
          then what's the point?

"What's nubile with you, my dear?" I asked.
"That's highly salacious, you know" she said.
"Wasn't he the King of Ethiopia?" I queried.

          If you're not any more interesting moist
          than you are torrid
          then what's the point?

"You're a piece of hot pie," I said,
"crusty with the sweet and creamy center."
"But they'll be no massacre of the General Custard this time," said she. 

          If you're not any more interesting polluted
          than you are pristine
          then what's the point?

I stood on The Point and looked out at the sea
and imagined I saw a pod of yellow whales, but that
was just the sun pissing twilight into the distant foam.