A Crookneck Squash and a Honeybee
Spied on by bloody cherubs
we hang our laundry in the sun,
singing away the rain
that stained our neighbors' clothes
with the faraway joy and rightnow pain.
Love is undecorated; hate, ornate.
Beauty is not a proportion but a relation.
Chased by Cupid's scrimshawed fangs
we run from home and far away,
carrying a crookneck squash
and a honeybee.
Naked, naked, forced to flee
with a crookneck squash
and honeybee.
All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.