-Camouflage for Barbara-

In the Arboretum,

the early morning, a clearing

dabbed in dampness, the trees
greening with jabbing

jolts of sunlight pinpricking
a way through them,

a coldness

hanging over the sleeping-bag,

damp and uncomfortable,
It was your idea of something
romantic ––
and around us more reasonable
places to piss than we would find at home.

Later, stiffly drier, with city-planted trees
growing from the sidewalks where god intended,
we gather the little belongings

and head-out for the Fleetwood.

Bushels of hair, reams of beaten denim,
waves of smoke slapping us silly, first loads

of early morning's wash,— yawning,
sleepy, still sleepy after all that romance, hungry,
panting for coffee and eggs, breath like lemons,
I said: "it was your idea", through a tongue like emery,
a "true romance", you said, passing the thin trees
cracking a way through to a chance at life,

onward toward the Fleetwood which was my idea.

                                                       Ann Arbor