poetry and prose webzine
I Marry Tony Soprano
in my sleep, call him Toto, though we meet nowhere
near the yellow brick road – Hadley’s chip shop Whitby,
in fact; rat-arsed eyes fused across a queue.
Says he swapped the Mafia for Morris dancing. Shows
some moves – outfit a touch snug, but butterfly light
on clogged feet. More British than Madonna
after a few Black Sheep. Swears he never misses
Carmela, New Jersey or the Mob since his addiction
to Plough Stot and Long Sword.
Turns out he’s minted. Promises round-the-world
air balloon rides, penthouse in Castle Howard, Betty’s
platinum card; makes an offer I can’t refuse.