So you come

stinking to high heaven

with all the foulness

of your worn-out stories –

je me souviens.

Bunions. Spittle. Squint.

You have yet to crack a smile,

your eyes wind tunnels.

And maybe you’re what I get –

the rush to destruction,

that whistling maw.

Eros exiled.

Bloody Time, you old cannibal

with your necklace of skulls.

By the scruff of your neck

I hoist you – toss you out.

Hose you down.

Drenched, you glitter.

Now,

in my arms,

in your nightgown,

you’re just an old woman –

frail, beset, bedraggled –

familiar as my kitchen.

How long for this world?

I reinsert you in the captain’s chair.

Across the table

we take each other in.

You tear off a chunk of baguette,

toss it my way.

Got your goat, eh?