American Gothic

Maybe it would have worked better if there were plows.
Ground to till. Corn to watch struggle through soil in the early
days of summer. If you could scratch behind the ears
of a hound, and survey what your sweat had brought you.

Maybe it would have worked better if I could make pies.
Hang wash on the line, blankets and sheets waving,
victory flags of our coupling.

Maybe it would have worked better if as the sun sank, we could sit.
At a table you built, in front of a pie I baked. Amorous and content
with what we had created. My hand on your weary thigh.
Your lips kissing away the flour on my cheekbone.