Somehow I never succeeded / in being taken seriously. They made me / wear things that were ruffled: off-the- / shoulder blouses, the tiered skirts / of flouncing Spanish dancers, though I never / quite got the hauteur — I was always tempted / to wink, show instead of a tragic / outstretched neck, a slice of flank.
I agree, it’s a hot topic. But only one? Look around, there’s a wide range. Take my own, for instance. I get up in the morning. My topic feels like hell. I sprinkle it with water, brush parts of it, rub it with towels, powder it, add lubricant. I dump in the fuel and away goes my topic, my topical topic, my controversial topic, my capacious topic, my limping topic, my nearsighted topic, my topic with back problems, my badly-behaved topic, my vulgar topic, my outrageous topic, my aging topic, my topic that is out of the question and anyway still can’t spell, in its oversized coat and worn winter boots, scuttling along the sidewalk as if it were flesh and blood, hunting for what’s out there, an avocado, an alderman, an adjective, hungry as ever.