Soft Tomatoes

Somebody says "I don't like
pussy songs" as I lean against
the ledge of the balcony singing.
If I were younger I would
jam the word love up another
headphone jack.
After all, I live with a man
who eats my soft tomatoes and
swells in my parmesan.
I know that this gingham dress
from the Salvation Army will
drop like a dead bolt against the door,
floating to the floor.
Later, we will take on the
conspiracy of love.
How can I not be a witness to true love.
It breathes into us with an inner glow
of the blackened walls
and keeps our small spaces warm.
God Bless Our Home is a wooden
plaque that flirts with the
other ironic flea market items.
Mother would want it that way.
Every cherished item should be pawned
so that its poetry will
knock in the stern night.
A raven can claw at it.
Dustle can settle,
The love now continues as his wet, stiff
denim pants hang from a bathroom rod
like Judas' rope.
Some day poets will eke out lines
and lines of love making and
reel in romantic dances.
Pussy songs will return to turn
the pages to white, orbital stars.