He unwinds from my neck, a casual passing caress and
flops onto my bed
sprawling across it, taking ownership
crosses his black fingers and commences.
He is plotting world domination;
this is how it will work.
His plan is twofold.
first scarves will infiltrate the fickle fashion industry
pin them down once and for all
black woolen scarves will adorn every supermodel,
every electically-dressed university student,
every starry-eyed preteen.
They will do this gradually, slowly,
so as not to disturb.
Simultaneously they will make a move into medicine
dangle from the necks of brilliant biomedial students
who are saving the world from the common cold.
Finally the virus will be isolated; catologued; stored away
and humanity will breathe a sigh of relief and
wipe a runny nose
one last time.
A year-long celebration will result
and while the foolhardy bipeds are
carousing with impunity
the scarves, piled neglected on a table,
will infiltrate the system
send the cold virus hissing through every
vent in the world.
The world will shuffle down its halls,
slippered and robed,
red-nosed and bleary-eyed
rummage through bins of scarves and select - yes! -
the stylish black wool scarf.
And he will rise from obscurity to the throne of the world
black scarves will protect the throats of
kings, sultans, prime ministers
black scarves will adorn the necks of
the most beautiful women in the world
black scarves will fall exasperatingly over
important charters, creeds, treaties.
He will have power, love, awe.
yes, that is how it will work.
He chuckles darkly to himself
as he curls on my bed, innocently limp,
plotting world domination.
