If I Smoked Pot

If I smoked pot,
which I do not,
you’d be what I would roll up in a reefer –
after (naturally) I listened to your briefer
on exactly how you liked to zoom into

a fume (swallowed soft and slow
and shot out fast?):
I’d hope you’d want
to last but wouldn’t count on it.
Extol? Oh yes.

Control? Don’t make the gods all roll around
in laughter. After we were done,
which is to say, exactly
at the moment you’d
decided that the fun

might just continue
in the form of slumber in my arms, I would attempt
to gather up your wafting charms and beckon
them to rest a while with me: like swarms
of fireflies whose phosphorence

needed just this tiny spot
of calm:
before they rose up to ignite the next
bright bomb into catastrophe.
However, I do not smoke pot.

So this is all I’ve got.

.