At the Florist
When asked if he wanted
his anthers cut off,
he paused for a moment,
dissembled a cough,
Then mumbled and shrugged
"I'm only a layman..."
"But surely" she smiled
"you know about stamens
And all of the grief
that's caused by their spread."
He adjusted his glasses,
"I'm not so well-read..."
Lifting a lily
from its cold water urn,
she said "A superbum
from which you can learn."
As she drew the great blossom
close to her bust
she fingered the filament's
lurid red dust.
"You see how a flower
erects its own stigma
though past all reproach
and free of enigma.
It's held by the pistil,
overt and with style
in a coiling of color,
sweet and fertile."
The silence grew, tense
with a cloying perfume.
A hothouse took over
her semi-frigid room.
Seeing her body's smooth moves
he felt it his fate.
High on hybrids, he thought
...time to cross-pollinate...
"What has to be done,"
he gasped "we must do."
She gathered the lilies,
"You'll know when I'm through."
Then stepping beside him
she tended each flower
humming and snipping
'til he started to glower.
"Your fervor's just this?
A mere shearing of pollen?!"
"A favor, no fervor.
Don't look so crestfallen."
When she laid the lilies
on a cellophane wrap
she gave his plaid shoulder
a good-ole-boy slap,
"Now your garments won't need
to visit the cleaner;
there's no stain in nature
as tough or obscener
Than the anther's satanic
impregnating dust,
those tiny male nuggets
full of tangible lust.
It's been a real pleasure
to fix these for you.
Your lilies are gelded.
What more can I do?"
