WHAT SHE GAVE.

[dadio]

She gave you a postcard print
Of Marc Chagall. You pinned it
To the inside of your bedroom door.
It had a Florence postmark
On the back; you imagined her spittle
On the stamp, her tongue licking
Until the stamp stuck. You wished
You could have been at her side
When she toured the Florence sites;
Wished in your secret thoughts
You could have shared her bed;
Felt her twist and turn in the night,
Sensed her body’s closeness as you lay.
She had written neatly on the back;
Her words conveying that day’s tour
And things she’d seen and done with him.
Before you’d pinned the card to the door
You had smelt the surface for her scent
As if she’d secretly hid some message there
Amongst the smells and aromas of her hand.
He’s just a friend, she said, seeking the arts
Of Florence and its galleries and famous sites.
How little she knows how much her being
Fills your thoughts and life and weary days
And all your lonely long dreams at nights

[the mingo]

Ha! enjoyed the pumpin' fuck outta this, Terry, Thx.

[dadio]

Thank you for reading, the mingo.