Figleaves – a poetic tribute to Tom

This is one of the poems I have written as a tribute to Tom’s art.  I hope you like it.

Figleaves

No figleaves

in the Uffizis of Tom’s art,

no attempt to conceal.

His men are not

limp figures “after the antique”,

unaroused, as yet, from the flaccid droop

of their androgyny.

No, they have burgeoned

into unabashed maturity.

His David declares himself a man,

proud of the ripe physique

with which he has been endowed

(more precocious than Michelangelo dared)

and palpably adult.

No leaves,

but instead: figs by the basketful

on which to glut ourselves.

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