Lines overheard here and there
[“Where did you disappear to Art?”
“Oh, I was polishing the black pearl.”]
Quickly, I whipped out my tiny notebook—
Jotted the wholly curious exchange.
And, I confess, that “black pearl” set the hook—
Weird (from Artie), that image (passing strange!).
Unsurprisingly, my first thought flamed sex,
Imagining a moist, dark-eyed houri,
Writhing, arched mons veneris expectant,
Dewy, waiting to be polished—imbued
With lust. But, I thought, that’s not our puckish
Art, and asked—what does “polish” metaphor?
“Huh?” twitched eyebrow, “’polish’ just means ‘polish.’”
Then what the devil does “black pearl” implore?
“That would be my heart’s delight, my treasure,
My ‘black pearl!’” (eyes flashing like a laser)—
“Reconstructed fountain of such pleasure—
My ‘88, fresh-painted Chevy Blazer!”
(7/6/09)