American Gothic

Posing, my dear, Is no laughing matter.
It’s a grim thing to stand here, bored, still, for
A painter we don’t know, when ten minutes
Earlier we lay wrapped, entwined, sweaty

In the feather bed, morning light streaming
Through the pointed arch window, your body
Pale, print dress bunched up, legs back, toes curled tight,
Open, inviting, spread for all my world.

Let’s end this pose and tend to urgent needs.
Show me your fields and I’ll give you my seed.
I’ll plow you through the night and into day.
I will reap your abundance through harvest.

We’ll romp and play, and should he interrupt
Our cavorting and our sweet pleasure time,
Well, then, God forgive me, I will skewer
This damned-fool painter Wood with my pitchfork.