Darker green than anything in nature (except for maybe nature Herself), the smallish cake has “Margo” indented, which will eventuality go away, but the memory lingers long after the name, or the soap itself, or the smell. Maybe it's the smell of a diplomat, or a race-car driver—but of decades past, while smoking in the green-room, or just prior to gentlemen starting their engines. Maybe it's the Uncle I never met because he pried the jewels out of the crown (though, there was no crown, just a Crown Victoria, and Crown Royal) or maybe it's the last stab at class for the guy who carries around an unopened Margo soap in his purple felt Seagram's Crown Royal bag with his burnt briar pipe and Dunhill Nightcap, and some mix and match pills, X-Acto knife, three smooth black rocks, and Social Security card.
Soap Review No. 23