Alas, They Aren't Me

Everybody says she’s big and loud!
Whom could they be speaking of? My city
is a whispered privacy – a secret intimacy
known between diaphanous sweet clouds
of sheets in the retreats of her and my
shared beds – she sheds her coverings
and rolls and lazes naked, interleaves herself
seductively – when she is in the mood
for a caress: though sometimes frets
and moons and undermines my longed-for
rest with scattered natterings and perturbations –

like a whiny teen or nervous pet – jabbing,
biting, squirming and expressing her regret
about the whole of everything: that is, when
she is not the soul of levity – to me, at least,
who finds her snickering (again!) in all
the cabinets of my proclivities. And then –
of course – albeit in odd circumstances –
solo, silent, dim – she grows the requisite
appurtenance and turns into a strapping him.
All this behind our scrim. I guess nobody
else can see. Alas, they aren’t me.



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