|Pampers, Lorraine Pilcher|
Whoever first painted the bunny
Couldn’t have imagined what a gorgeous burrow
They were entering,
With what tactile frenzy--
At what extreme depths
They would bury
Your soft, mollusk heart
Like a hand in its muff.
At first the brush tried to paint you
Sleek, if not prehensile
As a cat, sober as a dog.
But the hands felt way too good--
They just couldn’t stop caressing
Your soft cheek, your plump haunch:
Finally it was revealed
That what the hands were seeking
Was their own indulgence.
What they were making
Was history’s first perfectly innocent,
Perfectly imperious and impotent little
There are a couple of things
For which we must apologize.
After getting to the fem-extremity of soft,
How could we, how could we
Balance our art
On the phall-atrocity of those ears?
No wonder you are sometimes ill-tempered,
Skittish, that you live
To be pampered, oh little Cleopatra of rabbits
Sometimes, there is no insult