The Artichoke

The artichoke has no fashion sense.
It dresses in olive drab splotched with brown
like a raw recruit in jungle fatigues.

Camouflage is second nature to the artichoke.
It hides its tender heart and sophisticated tastes
under a tough-guy exterior of thick waxy petals
and thorn-tipped leaves in overlapping layers
like rows of sharks' teeth.

Overly sensitive to criticism,
the artichoke has a prickly personality.
It's given to barbed responses
from its sharp-tongued thistles,
stiletto-like bayonets fixed to the tips
of its concentric leaves.

The artichoke is sturdy.
A hefty compact globe,
it looks like the accidental offspring
of an amorous adventure
between a cactus plant and a pinecone.

Intensely private, the artichoke is hard to get to know.
It demands patience and pampering,
prefers a thorough manicure
to prune its sharp nails
and luxuriant lemon-juice massages.

A steam bath eases its defensive posture;
its uptight petals relax and recline
like sunworshippers in pool-side lounges.
The artichoke shows its softer side then,
becomes vulnerable to touch,
secure in offering up its secret self,
its tender-hearted core.