Last night I dreamed I was a French tick.
I crept onto the clay,
found my way down your bodice,
sank my teeth into your bellybutton.
By the time anyone noticed,
I was the size of an olive.
No worry: Gil was there.
He plucked me off,
took me to the lab,
popped me open.
Nostrils wide, hairy and hungry,
he sniffed the red,
lifted a joyous eyebrow,
sampled you with the tip of his tongue.
The next time he hits a close ball,
betcha the boundary will bend outward.
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