You like to tell the story

of when you first noticed me
denim jacket

and a pretty punk bob. 
In those days

I drank my coffee 
and you drank yours

every morning 
on heat but

casual as hell. 
In a different bedroom scene

we were Freud’s 
masturbating sisters

flushed, pacing about the room
call it parallel play.

Baby, I say, stroking 
your Chelsea while

we talk about sex.
It’s always been this way:

you need a mother 
and I need talk.

Of course I wonder 
what it would be like.

You know how to whistle 

don’t ya Steve?

You just put your lips 
together and blow.