Fishmonger

“Good morning Mr. Jones” She shouts over vomit-rusted fence, as I peek through my frosted window with morning breathe “Nice day isn’t it?” My nightmare begins: With vulture sculptured frame Eagerly spinning stories Of who done what, defiling names Bending, twisting over neighborhood fences Your stories spread Over past, present tenses Your fishwife persona with preschool sense of grammar Mixed with a hint of “know it all drama” Flies in our faces Like you’re stained bed sheets on washing lines with holes in certain places I’m sick of you’re slithering snake like culture, you gossip mongering vulture Toothless blue curlers in your hair You’re tacky pink morning slippers You’re socks a mismatched pair Your face, a beautician nightmare With yellow stained teeth Outcast from hell beneath When will this nightmare end?