On a bed unmade/is a grape tootsie pop laid!

I think
a lot of great thinks,
I think.

And some thoughts even
come close to the brink
of being more
than just thinks.

But they don’t.
And they won’t.

And then the think
I think
becomes a thunk,
and goes kerplunk.

And nothing I ever do or say
Will make it be more, nor make it be okay.

My ability to cook depends on which room I’m in.
Four burners? Or a king, queen, or twin?
A twin is like stir fry: quick, steamy and hot;
King or queen like slow basted barbeque, simmering, not

rapidly slammed down,
nor overly steamy;
but tender, warm, comfortable,
tasty and dreamy.

So, in the end,
you have to decide
what type of meal
down your palate will glide!

What enjoyment you’ll feel;
which temperment you’ll reveal.

I want to tell you a story
of late night glory,
and dew,
and me
and you.

It was an experience
wonderful and strange!
I did it more than once:
Returning again
to where you’d lain.

I could scarcely contain
my curiousity
to see if I could tell
where the fruits of our amourosity
fell.

And, once I did,
could not contain, again,
myself, and on I sped;
would not refrain,
but exploded in memoric,
meteoric
delight!
By myself,
in my room,
where you’d lain
at night.

You ask if I am scared?
No! I’m well prepared!
I want to go to bed;
find the pillow
where you laid your head.

Smell
where your hair
round soft shoulders fell,
and drift off to where
I sleep,
sweet
memory
of you
with me.