The Picture of Contentment

If you were its picture, would you
be a grin so wide and wrinkled
it would cause a crowd to call

a cop? Would your arms grow,
bottom to the top, so malleably
large, deliciously embracing,

wanton, free and snaky that they’d
make a baby cry? Would your feet
become so very comfortable

that they’d flatten and relax into
two greenish loosely muddy pies –
thereby offending passing eyes?

Would you wander vaguely here
and there wrapped in a lurid
and unfashionable canopy

of orange-pink, do you think?
Pitch the world’s resentment.
Be the picture of the contentment.

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