I couldn’t see through your cigarette smokescreen
when we met in that gin-soaked joint.
Lovemaking between twisted sheets of new-dew sweat,
mummified within our cheap motel sarcophagus.
Who knew I was just another slab of ready-to-order meat?
Pick a number at the delicatessen counter.
I could taste invading lovers on you, the salty brine of them.
Standing sentry at your gates, tunnel visioned,
while they crept through my periphery.
And as I sit with spirits clouding my mind,
I wonder if my claws clutched too tightly,
if truly I don’t know the difference between lions and lambs.