Unseen

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.