The Sexiest Woman Alive

by John Pursch

She wore her dressing sack everywhere:
pitcher's mound, diving bell, houseboy's yacht.
When the milkman's turn finally came,
he was caught selling Tupperware
to undercover brake mechanics,
greasy hands slapping on the cuffs.
Voyeurs tailed her soup spoon
to its seven-course hideout,
only to find a declawed cat
that looks and tastes a lot
like canned olives.

Dreary skies tatooed
her pairs of antipodes
on every addled worker,
swapping the war on rugs
for a few more flying carpets.
Transfixed by her charms,
the world economy now teeters
on the edge of vertiginous prolapse;
averages have shifted in transit
and sloshed divisors
have spent their last iota,
searching for a camel's child.