You’re as limp as a wet stocking
yet as frigid as a dry latex glove.
Deflated,
with the sculpted face of Dionysus.
I could frame that face
and hang you from my garden wall.
I will bring the rope,
but have you tie the knot.
I will admire you from beneath every archway.
I will sign my name below,
like I sign my own face
after the lipstick goes on.