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March, 2021

This homeless tramp Priapus

appears, exposing himself in

the garden. Flowers follow.

It’s a disgrace, nobody says.

It’s a joy, we smile concurring.


Lift in your hand the fallen

petals soft as labia

still swollen and damp.

Sniff the earth and wonder

what could sustain awhile


these drooping flowers?

And where’s that lascivious

bastard gone to other climates

leaving me to weep

among his various offspring?


How I loved the spring

of his step, his errant

ways, the secret corners

where he did his

dirty deeds and came


to whisper in my armpit

while his face lay upon

my breast “this is the life,

sweet momma,

this is the life.”

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