There is a certain amount

of embarrassment

when nature is involved.

Just as we children

have heard

compromising sounds

from behind closed doors.

We couldn't help but feel ashamed,

and as adults

those feelings, engrained, remain.

The facts of nature we must hide—

why we insist on plastic plants

instead of real ones.

We had real ones,

once—

as a man has a pretty bride,

once.

But when needs are not met,

and too much maintenance required,

we find that man has a shiny, new car,

and plastic cards, instead.

Neglected, pretty bride

browns and becomes a bit crispy

around the edges.

And there is a certain amount

of embarrassment

by having it in the house,

so it is discarded,

naturally.

But a secret shame remains,

not for how far it had expired,

but as for what,

we can't quite place.