We who are home

Who is out there in the green grass, in silver panties and tongue of steel
lolling on the crabapples & fond of crabs with claws that don't close
on clothes or a pigeon-breast to stuff into a fur-collared horn-buttoned red
bivouac of a coat on days when the snow sweetly pecks our cherry (cerise)
cheeks? And resists the move to California because it's the wrong season
it's the wrong country and it is possible to get everything and meet
everyone you need right here, a country so well-proportioned and
charming under the polar toque ears sticking out for colour (red) maybe
an erratic piercing, eyes like each shining sea but under it all a
maple syrup smile for sure (sucre-bleu!) but who is here who
will listen and care? (Only after legs closed around me panties hot
and t-shirt riding up did I wake up and said I can't maybe next
year I thought but didn't say and it didn't happen.) Love is always
seeming my houseguest; a convenient place, it's home. A mess
though. No sudden moves, anyway not far, hear? It's nice to kiss
while washing the dishes so we take turns