Oblique… a poem?

OBLIQUE

The counterfeit spy invaded my privacy in a public place while I was alone discussing music composition with the telemarketer drinking coffee at the liquor store inside the car dealership.  Her name was Ed, but she preferred blue over the pickled herring that a grizzly cast off while up on the high wire surfing the web for cocktail dresses called road hazard.  And, no, I don’t recall the question.  Would you mind repeating it?  My door was locked and the batteries for the smoke detector had salami for breakfast after the blitz happened in Egypt during the ice storm.  My moon isn’t the same any longer since they changed the light bulbs into a roundabout.  Yes!  I do prefer the vintage.  Thank you!