Wearing a tin can tiara

and a teacup glance

she rolls out the chocolate

with queenly vision and verve.

Mab in silver shackles

rattling verse of whispered flight

and pending adventure,

     dancing light,

          glimmering thought,

she recites from Dante and Keats.

Another "gangsta" she ignites

smoke rising toward Napoleon’s ceiling,

"He built this place," she explains,

"but he never made the crossing

to see it himself

so now I park my Harley

in the emperor’s carriage-way

and rave at my royal fortune."

They come to her in cavalcade

of art and inspiration,

voices raised, piano keys caressed

and trombones wailing in the night.

She pours tea to Englishmen

coffee to gamesmen and thieves,

fresh milk, she sets out

for the stray calico

that haunts the shadowed alley.

And when the sun shows clearly

and the breeze gently shines,

she kick-starts her steed,

riding over dream swept streets

in her gilded tapestry’s spree.