Pluck
You’ve got cheek, Blossom, when it comes to
fitting a shoe, railing at an eggplant propped like a pillow, plucking a
button from the shoulder of the monster, misting the monkey’s mouth or
laying down a slippery law for the eels cornering you.But what happens
when the war comes home, when the chips crack and crumble, when the
plates break and thunder rolls over the chimney? What happens when the
crows
come back to hurl insults and the jokers fall where they may?
What happens when the rhinuncula weep, and the roses sag? What happens
when the wheezing starts and the tickle tightens in the throat? What
happens when your lips smear, and rain batters your cheekbones?
Then raise a glass. Then send up a salvo. Then open your cups and whirl in the blossoms, your skirts swirling. Then light the weeds with your sassy sashay, your brilliant silk, your lush lamp. Then tell me about pluck.
Luca Penne works as a carpenter when he can find work, lives in New Hampshire, and has published his prose poems in various magazines including 2River View, Forge, Heroin Love Songs, Milk, and so on.