I safety-pinned my dome cap
to the big de Kooning on the wall
when no one around was looking,
and you can’t tell me that blown-up woman
isn’t instantly more modest, kind of
the opposite of what happened to General Grant
when the bluffs at Vicksburg quit being so steep.
So I’ve known you now for fifteen days,
‘could mix the shade of brown your underarms are
strictly from memory and muddling no more than,
say, four acrylics, so why in hell can’t today be
this pallet of hours on which we’ll stretch out
and screw like a couple of minks?
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.