This poem is available as a reading here
The Postman Wears Prada
I stand at the door. It's 8 am and a waspish wind penetrates my bathrobe. A thousand invisible piranhas nibble at my scrotum with their icy teeth "Sign here!" I shuffle my fluffy-bunny slippers and lean closer. There's something about Postie, a certain I dont smell what. Sniff, sniff. "Is that Prada?" He proffers his wrist. "Like it?" Protocol must be observed. I take his hand in mine inhale deeply bergamot patchouli raspberry undertones of sandalwood no obvious sea-mammal excretions. The fragrance speaks to me. It says elegance it says style it says wake up and smell the postman.