Bell-bottom Jeans
At a garage sale
for nostalgia’s sake I buy bell-bottom jeans,
knees lovingly patched with paisley.
Peace, brother, says the ancient dude
as he pockets my single dollar.
Never in the mood,
I store them like an old photo,
mellow in my closet.
A quiet vibe, these threads.
Until my daughter discovers, wears
as a hippie Halloween costume
to a high school dance and looks great.
Absolutely great.
Groovy! she shouts.
Now for her children one day to find.
May peace endure like pants.
Patch. Love. Dance.
My artichoke, my love
Bristly, chubby,
in sandy soil by the green ocean
our love thrives.
We wash in droplets of cool fog.
We wrestle in ditches.
We nurture thistles.
Wildfire consumes hills nearby.
We guard against sparks.
Our passion smolders.
Prickles protect,
but a sweet core betrays
a heart spicy and soft.
We steam, with tang of garlic
we touch lips, we savor.
We peel layers from our love,
we suck scraping between teeth.
A voluptuous coating we butter.
Lick me nibble me devour me we mutter.
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints.
At a garage sale
for nostalgia’s sake I buy bell-bottom jeans,
knees lovingly patched with paisley.
Peace, brother, says the ancient dude
as he pockets my single dollar.
Never in the mood,
I store them like an old photo,
mellow in my closet.
A quiet vibe, these threads.
Until my daughter discovers, wears
as a hippie Halloween costume
to a high school dance and looks great.
Absolutely great.
Groovy! she shouts.
Now for her children one day to find.
May peace endure like pants.
Patch. Love. Dance.
My artichoke, my love
Bristly, chubby,
in sandy soil by the green ocean
our love thrives.
We wash in droplets of cool fog.
We wrestle in ditches.
We nurture thistles.
Wildfire consumes hills nearby.
We guard against sparks.
Our passion smolders.
Prickles protect,
but a sweet core betrays
a heart spicy and soft.
We steam, with tang of garlic
we touch lips, we savor.
We peel layers from our love,
we suck scraping between teeth.
A voluptuous coating we butter.
Lick me nibble me devour me we mutter.
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest books of poetry are Foggy Dog and Random Saints.
