The cactus and his man
lean in green
toward each other in a cluttered room of books,
a lifetime spent in busy dust
caressed by sunlight illuminating
a window whose ample sill embraces
pots of prickly green balls.
Cacti are as slow as scholars
and as hairless, convoluted, firm.
Once a decade there is a bloom
a boutonniere for the awards ceremony, perhaps.
Meanwhile the single sunlight and the high open window
are the sole observers of the cactus
and his man.