Faun at the foot of the fountain

I wish I was a marble
faun at the foot of the fountain
in the heart of the market of the town,
where life swarms.

Instead I sit on the steps of that fountain,
squinting at the antsy rustling around me,
grabbing my bottle tighter.

I have since recently fallen in love with that
marginally overweight businessman
gulping from his pocket flask
while waiting for his tram,
because I love the expression of fear
in his face that I know so well.

And I love even more the posh secretary
smoking nervously, stomping her stilettos
on the sidewalk, because she
leaves her package of cigarettes
on the bench for me every single
day of her working week.

The rest I majestically ignore.
The same straying dog meets me at eight
with a mouth full of hedonistic laughter
and throws his meager body against mine
to get the night shiver out of our bones.

Posh

Drab morning,  no aperitifs! Someone left a suitcase monster filled with marijuanilla.
You are still asleep, opened up to my peeping eye,
your auburn hair anarchistically fanned out on the cushion.
I put on Monk, then return to the serious business of rolling Mexican calumets and while I meditate on  your perfect breasts I inhale to wed myself to life again and three joints later all has become  lovelier,
I bow down to make lips meet * . Afterwards,  “Coffee,  my sweet?”
You bite my neck. “frappé please”.
“Oh, Greek? “   You laugh and say “no, not now “.

*  from L. Irigaray’s title: Quand nos lèvres se parlent. but everyone knows what I mean.