Who Could It Be?

Who could it be? Who’ll read me like a book?
Who’ll miss me when the printed date expires?
Who’ll sniff the animal they planned to cook,
inspect the teeth, and grab a pair of pliers?
I miss a girl aware that we are not
more god than ape, resplendent, fierce baboons.
I need a woman not bugged by the thought
of snuggling close our oversized cocoons.
I do not need a vision born of fire
to strike a match and set it to my fuse
nor need I go a-traipsin’ on a wire
above the clouds, when I can sing the blues
all by myself, and every verse is free,
and all amount to one. Who could it be?