The Biceps

there was a sad ending to your story
your arm skin didn’t have that glow
there was a pilgrim kind of glory
like waving from shore at a puppet show

you held on tight, constrained by your will
your muscles fighting for their upbraid
it was an old hat kind of cheap thrill
your paws ranged for plans well laid

there was a sad beginning I remember
your bandana fashion seemed strained
like true lovers wooing too tender
like asserting something unnamed

but there you stood on fragile toes
tender feet jealous of your arms
you prayed for dancing in the throes
you settled for some steely charm

there may yet be a tacked-on ending
your eyes seem ripe for writing
it’s summer, time for rule bending
a new fiction sounds inviting

what you’ll get is muscle mass
warm to touch and sore to sleep
don’t forget to cut the tall grass
what’s highest is last to keep

May 6, 1999