His Perfect Form

His Perfect Form

how he slices

thru waves arms slashing thru mirror

after mirror plunge & turn & glide

up slice again—

in the showers,

his lovely long calves & thighs,

small buns high up, hips grasped

in dreams for thrust & sigh—

silken skin over

six-pack tight & O what delight

must lie there, hands moving

over soft flesh, that shy

smile over

his shoulder, light above clouds,

tousled hair thrown back, wet streams

flowing all down his perfect form—

Goggle-eyed

scrawny old man greying

flesh, thin legs, turns his

body away that others might

not see, yet peers out of his

corner watching the parade of

man & boyflesh as it passes.

he listens but will not talk

when Adonis calls him,

turns quickly to draw &

unfold his underwear from

his gymbag, his buttcheeks

quivering. there are scars

in his side—some old wound,

some surgery lost in his private

story. finally dressed, he

scratches his pate, clutches

his gymbag, closes the locker

& makes his way thru naked

boys & men, almost unseen,

pausing to peer back as if

rueful he could not break

his silence, nor they enter his.

Full Lips Singing Hello

a slender boy

turns his nearly naked

torso & laughs

dark curls falling

across his forehead—

blue eyes look up to you—

fair skin flushes,

slender hips & firm

buttocks, turning

as he drops his towel

to reveal

his fine large cock in

its nest of dark hair.

he dresses quickly,

turns, winks, &

hustles out where he

meets a friend, a

blonde boy, wiry,

hands in pockets,

large eyes, full lips

singing hello.

What Men You Be

whadda racket—

young boys playing snap-ass

with wet towels

tumble thru the lockerroom,

skinny stumps swinging

as they bank & flash into

the showers thru crowds of

steaming bodies all shapes until

crashing against the

big one, he of the pork-pink

gut who gets 'em by the necks

& swings 'em

gasping, who in hell you tryin'

to kill—laughter all around—

great bristles in his dilated nostrils,

his gut a rolling fleshscape

with fine white-blonde hair from

crotch to navel, delicately up

between bulging manbreasts—O,

he says, what men you be,

slow it down & learn to live. .

After workout

after workout: his face is unremarkable, his voice

a chatter of platitudes & biblical quotes, yet

his penis hangs achingly low, its huge barrel

a lovely pink, swollen even limp, its head curving

thru its ellipse to the cupid’s bow where the lines,

lovely & delicate as the curves in a lily’s flower,

join. others come & go, yet this his flower

is a work of art, worthy of lips & tongue, an icon

of tenderness for a heart aching & charged.

He is indeed

lovely as he swaggers in,

swinging his

hips & arms,

singing to himself, dark eyes

flashing as he

pulls off his

pants & dances

up to the mirror,

posing as others

dress & talk & slam locker doors:

there is

no hint of that sorrow within,

the agony as his love

stepped out, his night of

pacing

gazing out the empty window where only

the full moon hung low

& deep night’s cars

passed silently:

now there’s only

perfect thighs, long

legs, lips to sigh for,

his thin torso,

hand brushing

thru his hair—

O the songs

this boy could raise

in a poet’s dream, this young singing sigh.