The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Adam Hanover
Not a pig, not "donut munching swine,"
as a teenager once so eloquently oinked to him
while he directed traffic outside a high school.
(At least according to Froissart.)
More like an aging Schwarzenegger.
In summer, a red, horseshoe-shaped halo
ringing his sunburned scalp,
he kneels shirtless by the pine fence
in Terminator pose, preparing an assault
against the eggplant ripened on the vine.
Heavily muscled, his age-freckled arms
fill the small bushel silently,
Inside, he kisses my mother
as she goes to the cabinet for bread crumbs.
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