I meet me in my lover’s loft,
Staring seductively at my soft naked body,
Lying on a bed of straw,
Ripening thoughts,
Freshly pruned Christmas poinsettias
tango across my rancid mind,
Am I so daring,
To imagine a thousand foil-wrapped plants basking in a greenhouse sweat,
Greens and reds and multicolored designs,
Such swirling ideas and my lover wails beneath the vapid odor
of my skunk’s breath,
Leaving me here to traipse along the avenues of this winter’s pale skin,
The mattress below me of mildew and death,
I am pricked by exposure and straw,
Empowering my blood to forsake the course and choose the shaft,
To follow no man’s rule of law,
Lost in fantasy,
Row after row of perennial pleasure softly brushing
against my skating hips,
Will I find just one,
One plant pruned with a master gardener’s precision and grown to satisfaction,
This one to be watered with a twist,
The white blur of my long and tasteless fingers like tiny pistons marching
to a rebel’s tune,
Transposition of a dank hayloft to a humid potting shed,
The mad voice within me croons,
I am weak with poinsettia passion,
Disentangling my clothes from the dried chaff,
My shame in high fashion.
12.31.09
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