It hinges on the thesis that if Susan
is a woman, and Susan wears red hats,
and Theodora is a woman and Theodora
loves opera, and you factor in that Dan is a man
frequently seen in black polka dot socks with nothing
on his head, while Stephen has a yen for Napoleons, then
everything holds water, until, out of nowhere, Kim comes in
in unisex pajamas bearing an oversized blancmange that had up
until then been wholly absent from the theorem.
To make it worse, Jean, we’ve begun to conclude, may
in fact, be Jean, the sporter of a beret rouge, and in the middle
of this particular muddle somehow emerges Frances, née Francis,
an Ecuadoran he-she in stiletto heels, who is temptingly eclipsed by Chris
in hip-high hobnail boots and the dolorous score of La Bohème on his or her lips.
It would be wise at this point to step back and regroup,
but by now the zebra who sleeps next to the hyena on every
other Tuesday and the chinchilla who can’t be kept anywhere near
the iguana but is in love with the gorilla have all broken down their doors
to come charging in, all of them braying and trumpeting and riotously carrying on,
trampling into lamentable dust the bare-footed, prematurely bald, morbidly obese
who, entering at just the wrong moment, was heard murmuring with solicitous
the Esperanto word for Brie.