Potting Lesson

Mark and Barb kissed. The instructor
pretended not to notice Mark’s left eye
was crooked. Besides, potting orchids
is for everyone—even the cockeyed. Barb
asked if she could eat the baked potato
she’d brought from home.  The instructor said,
great,  go for it.  So she ate. Mark
sucked his teeth and walked a little walk.
It’s definitely that Vermont is so  verdant,
chimed Mark, de profundis.              Are you sure?,
Barb asked mock-tenderly, indifferent. Why, sure
I’m sure, it’s been a long time coming.
lisped the instructor, his sticky brow
glistening like a foolish diadem, What I want
you to do is this: grasp its roots and gently,
these puppies love to disappoint you, gently;
now scootch them into the—Scootch?!    snapped Barb,
ruder than ever and by this time remarkably bombed
on Scope. The instructor always was sweet,
until he got ugly; and here he was, old enough
to pot an orchid but so utterly devoid
of charisma his mind actually began
to open—physically (this actually happened). And 
the walls drew more and more towards it.  
heads said, O, but our family!  before slipping
from their easy shoulders and disappearing
into the instructor’s skull. He came to, tapped it
and wondered aloud, gee, wonder what’s up with
my hearing.