Spring Poetry Contest - Top Ten Finalist
I am a lover of many things, including women.
One is strawberry, one is peach,
sometimes one is pomegranate,
difficult to split but worth it, the seeds,
how they burst on your tongue.
I’ve done worse than compare
women to fruit. If you must know,
and you must, I mainly work in nothing
but a paint-smeared smock,
which gives some women pause and others,
the vapors. First I offer tea,
perhaps an aperitif, and they make vague protestations
concerned about their bladders,
sure I’ll be quick to anger should they require
the facilities. Yet my patience is infinite
as Dante’s lake of ice, a smooth unblemished surface
belying endless depths. My smile, it disarms.
I will not yell at you,
süße frau, I will not scold you like a child.
I am no one’s husband
so I act like no one’s husband.
What they ask is that I keep their women happy,
the gigolo in soiled clothes.
If you must ask, and you will, I’ve gone forth
and been fruitful. Fourteen boys and girls
with mothers no worse for it,
the married and the widowed and the never-to-be-wed.
What I’ll tell you here is I love
in equal measure. My abacus is balanced.
I remove the smock when my skin gets warm
and like horses, we froth.