What the Scoutmaster Said
A bricky ground swell, several red tomatoes—
any of the papered sums might enter
our preservative tempietto, with its expanse
of twine-tied earthly samples
vanishing along filing nooks.
Outside we practiced exact jaw composure
and pronunciation of the meta-mistakes.
This fecund Englishness was doing us aplenty
right afore the midday’s drill.
Round back a lackey craned his hunch.
Services and goods passed hands and a lass
met grounds for verbal sass:
“brush art…porcelain bowls.”
Chalk it up to our extended executive
training that we left razzed at the open
limits of what could enter our camp’s ken.