Non-Erotic PoetryThe Letter"Quel'heure est-il?,"
He said to Fifi,
Knifing another
Twist for his scotch
As Fifi on cue
Barked once at the clock.
Inserting a middle
Finger in ice,
Peter stirring
Imagines cocoons
And larvae that pupate
Until the full moon
Unfolds the butterfly.
"Open wide."
"Yes, she did
But not I......."
His hi-fi needle brain
Scratches tonight mel-
Odious love sick tunes
While Peter, sick,
Sucking on rind,
Sits down,
Down, down
With her letter left there.
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