Growing a Tail

The age of chemicals was behind us,
the touching under tables,

soldiers in their sandbox,
watercolors bleeding through the lines.

We had time for disambiguation of “love”
used as a verb in De Sade’s early poems. 

Rejected fire skulked before a screen.
The urge was ripe, nursed in public.

We had time to explain it away.
Time was behind us, so we wrote it:

song of a poorly curated exhibit
where visitors compose the museum labels. 

We were curious about the oranges.
Chocolate rectangles nudged us back.

The old regime was a buffet line.
The sandbox awaited our command.