In yon grocers aisle, price climbs as if taken wing,
Eggs and meats sit still, as the cash registers ring.
Yet down the endless rows, where goods in packages sing,
Unseen inflation's snail leaves a stringent sting.

In distant Paris, as mid-July shadows cast,
Parades of checkered past howl like lonely mast.
On Bastille's Day, goats feast on tensions vast,
Echoing discordance, in the whistling political blast.

Physicians, true as rabbits, neither old nor spry,
In numbers they find strength, from dawn to twilight sky.
From yesteryears wisdom or youth's teachable eye,
In constant learning, they heal as the days go by.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur