the Strait of Messina

her slender fingers were digging into my head
her eyes were closed
we had no thoughts of the nearby bed
several times i heard her softly say
this was nice
and it was nice!
"I wish you were mine."
well maybe i wouldn't want to be hers:
limos, diamonds, mansions, and furs?
i've been to Passport Cafe parties before
they've emptied my pocket of coins
in search of perfect passing loins
and still she tried to get closer to me
and spilled her coffee
i had been rubbing her arm
she said with no hint of alarm
but i wanted her breasts
she showed me where the spill was
between her legs
and i wanted to suck her pants dry
why?
i support life, i suppose
and to water my rose.
Plus, i wouldn't let her down
but she wouldn't let me up.
so i went to get her another cup.
her one glass of white wine became two
me, beer!!
and we both became in good cheer
i have a theory for you,
my dear,
we are who we are
sitting on the sofa by the fire
discussing travel and books,
culinary notions,
the Strait of Messina and ancient potions:
running barefoot in our dreams on the sand
waking up after the storm on dry land
hardly worth mentioning
we are both looking for a place
and i hope we find it
a copy of Bohemia was on the table
her head was on my shoulder.
no limo, diamond, mansion, or fur
i simply wanted her
because of who she is.
n'est pas?
how's my French?