THE FLOWER IN YOUR LAPEL

by John Tustin

I bend to pick the flower

and the vine grabs me by the throat.

I search for smooth stones

and I find only ashes.

I climb the mountain

and find molehills on the other side.

The robin flew away from me

and the alligator winked from the muck.

An owl hooted

and a crow responded—

I think they were talking about me—

I almost caught the egrets laughing

behind my back.

A stiletto is always a blade to me,

never a heel.

I only like to see women in black stockings

in a photo or on a screen.

I’m offended if a woman who gets in my bed

is anything but bare-legged.

Call me crazy. Many do.

I prefer eccentric.

I tried to sniff the flower in your lapel,

by the way.

I wasn’t afraid,

seeing as how it was cut off

and far from its vine.

You gave me a squirt of water

right in the eye.

You probably don’t even know you did it.

That ought-a learn me,

as grandma used to say.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP