Busy crows peck a green loaf of hedge
while mother lies upstairs on edge,
her features encased in a splendorous,
slow-drying mint julep mask.
Behind my closed door on my back
on the bed, you straddle my neck
with your legs as you moan and cry.
Your juice shoots into my eye.
The phone chimes out to the air
downstairs on the vacant first floor —
electronic tones carried off like hair
from a dog being brushed next door.
I’ve learned to make pleasure my duty.
Every person deserves days of beauty.