by Con Chapman
The only time you asked me to tie your limbs
to the bedposts, it was the middle of the day
and our little Italian landlord could be seen
outside in his garden, through the screen.
He was tending his tomatoes, tying them
with twine to the wooden stakes.
You were never wetter,
it was never better.
Mr. Pizzoni held his hose;
we kept our moans low
so he wouldn't know
what was going on inside,
where beads of sweat
formed on your breasts,
like drops of water on the
globes of red fruit below.
Tomatoes are fruits, not vegetables,
you know; they have seeds,
and grow from an ovary in
the base of the flower.
We were like that fruit--male and
female, one and the other as one.
Outside, it started to rain, but
no clouds obscured the sun.
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