I was a sail or buoy a vessel for you were a flower child. I was a farmer’s hand on virgin land with no plough to till your earth ly ways con sensually wild.
So soon beneath the tell-tale tiles of our riff-raff roof where the fur black cat ran back to where we started. Portes slammed and fenêtre failed until legs were all that parted.
I was a basket case a host for you to be a missionary in every place except position. And between your thighs your holy ghost filled every nebula of life but not the universe of my religion.
And so beneath the chim-chiminey che-roo where our fur black cat once sat with you the faces in your mirror on the wall still stare and I huddle like a child in the corner on the chair as I watch them grin from the scrim.