June 2008 / Volume Eight / Issue Two
Carl Miller Daniels
sore

when transplanting seedlings, the sexy
young-man works in the nude,
out behind the greenhouse,
among the shards of broken flower pots,
his naked toes amongst the old silt of sifted peat moss.
sexy young-man working in the nude
carefully transplants the small seedlings
into the next-stage pots, bits of
fertile soil on his chest and nipples
and spilling into his navel and pubic
hair and darkening the tip of his
smooth pink cock-head– he works
and works and transplants and
transplants out there behind the
greenhouse. when he gets thirsty,
he stops and takes a drink out
of the nozzle of the slinky green
hose. then he squirts himself
off and washes away all the clinging
bits of soil, and he stands there
wet, shiny, and
the whole thing– the complete
image, everything, him, the
seedlings, the sifted peat moss snuggled
at his toes, his broad smooth
sweaty back, the nozzle
of that big green hose pressed
to his lips, his freshly-washed
but previously soil-darkened
cock-head– it's all so
sexy that the ornaments surrounding
the fish pond,
statues of big-busted mermaids
and goat-footed fawns,
wriggle, flex, and
ask him for favors;
he never says no.
they only really want
a good scrubbing -- so much
moss and algae clinging
to their perpetually
wet surfaces,
but he always gives
them more than that.
never complains, either.
never. well,
maybe every now and then,
when he's feeling
cranky, sad, and
just plain
lost.
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