my morning jacket

she bobs into the frame and that old feeling
reveals itself again. a terminal junkie, i still
am. a parlance of an acid drop i surrender
letting it go on the roof of make-believe
i draw her to the roof. we watch the sun go down,
a postcard best, masking what’s underneath
while we shoot the breeze, urging the trip

but imagine drawing an outline across her face,
like so. grace it on the altar, and touching her
will send quivers within a perimeter, for sure

i can’t expose this pretence. she’s not real,
i believe. but she keeps arriving with shopping
bags and stories when i muse over tea and scones
on preppy days and a deck chair. her lips swollen
i like her eyes. if only she wants to dance with me
a lowdown, i don’t need repeating