By | 1 November 2018

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.

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