August 5, 2001
Corn Plant
Oh, by the way, I still have your corn plant.
Of course, you don't remember, of course, of course--
it wasn't enough to be there,
you had to see it in afternoon light.
I watched you work the corn plant
up the outside stairs,
outside stairs,
where all could see.
Where I saw,
arriving in time to see
the corn plant go
up-bump, up-bump, up.
A backwards-stepping job for a brawny blue collar:
legs cocked under like a grass hoppers',
arms outstretched,
smooth round ass tipped skyward,
pulling, pulling, pulling
like an angler churning in a too-large fish
panting rhythmically against gravity and inertia.
The sight was what you'd expect:
a slight woman
in translucent silk blouse tucked
into a short, tight grey skirt--
(and heels!, red, as I recall):
awkward looking as hell is what you'd expect.
After you left Richland Street
it travelled with me.
Whittled away by neglect and indifference
to spongy waste-stem,
it metamorphosed into
an anchorite plant
unused to the temptations of
water, shade or non-abrasive touch.
Bare and ruined and ugly though it was,
contrariwise,
I would not let it die.
But, if you could see it now!
Over three feet tall, I estimate,
lushly greened and glowing from half sun,
proud in its pot
like it was parading in Paradise.
It teaches survival is not all bad.
Did I ever thank you for it?