The Branch of Art

If I were in Pompeii in that one time I would be the statue standing with a wide grin, legs akimbo, hands balled and at my waist, erect penis jabbing out into the sunny air.

A slow trickle of spring water would dribble out of the end of the tip of my stone branch and it would be said that the women who drink from the well are soon after pregnant and the men who drink are filled with a vitality that lives only in the body of the wild humping monkeys of Borneo.

The children would swing on the branch and the mothers would say, "Don't, darling, you'll break it!"

The fathers will just smile and say, "Dear, you worry too much! You cannot break art."

The men will be right in their own way and certainly they will be wrong in their own way, too.

The mothers will insist, though, which is really for the best because even art can be something from which you do not hang.