In Beryl's Wake

Wood Storks rock! They skewer the word purer with a white- on-white the envy of any housewife's Monday wash, or laundry delivered home by women with baskets on their heads after drying in the noonday sun in which only mad dogs and Englishmen go out, (or those with no Sears Roebuck connections). Take heed, Ye hawkers of detergent wares, lascivious for new insignia. Send old trademarks to old obliv-ia, Take a winged design to fly away grime. And, while you're at it, add the color red for bloodshed in the marketplace, perfect hue for Madison Avenue. In tropic times, our storks, shelve safe haven from the branches on which no one lays laundry-- only their flawless selves. They know a storm with a woman's name can put to shame all others, and when Beryl's done and on the run, they return to bond in motherland, the moment seized: a genetic lust for oedipal trees.