Author Information
He Is a Pine Cone Collector
She let me warm my hands on her breast
While she brought the wine glass from the Restore
To my lips.
She said her toes were cold from waiting,
While I had picked pine cones from the ground around the mailbox
And laid them on the bush
Outside my door.
They would look fine
In the bowl
Beneath the cadenza.
And that had led from taking out the garbage
And from a shower after a nap
While her toes grew cold from waiting.
Yet she let me warm my hands upon her breast,
While she served me refrigerated wine,
From a spigoted box.
