The Mulberry Tree
The boughs of Vincent’s mulberry tree hang laden with happy faces,
this one spreading smooches up the length of his lover’s arm,
that one pollinating herself with lemon kush from a Persian pipe.
Vincent’s tree flames with anguished faces, hollow eyes beneath arched brows.
Mouths agape, they wait and they worry.
This man battles in vain a fluttery nervous tic,
that woman scans the dark for her lost cat (pet duck in untroubled times).
Vincent’s mulberry tree wails and screams and writhes,
the faces’ heads gathering their bodies about them in haste,
like open robes clutched closed over exposed breasts before unwelcome eyes,
and drop to the ground like overripe globes of fruit.
That mad old red-faced gent,
extended pointer wagging
in the girls’ faces,
Young interloper secreting
behind the screen, suppressing
mischief and mirth,
The girl in the disheveled dress
objecting, breast exposed,
her friend gamely showing
the old man what may be saved.
There are four of them now,
after all, and plenty of wine.
Young Woman Sexting
Swiveling the monitor a few degrees
from my piqued scope, she
artful manipulations of the first
two fingertips of her pretty right hand.
Bent elbow planted on that chain-store desk
I screwed together myself, little woodgrain
stickers over the screws, her palm cradles
not platter but cheek. Eyes, narrowed and coy,
never leave mine
as the pace
of her keystrokes
and a blush spreads across her cheeks.