is pockmarked – not with acne it
is a skin problem he explained once to me – autoimmune,
I can’t recall the rest (I don’t know
anyone who isn’t broken) he slid his hands
into my belt loops. Maybe I imagine
that he cares about the novelty.
He doesn’t get close
to it anyway because that isn’t
what I do. (I am not
what I do) instead I do
what I do in the stall of a public bathroom – not rest
room men’s room loo a genuine American
shithole. This is an ordinary story in which
he hits another boy for calling me a name.
He’s decent. The ten
in my pocket afterwards feels
presumptuous. Why pay for what was freely given?
Perhaps he thinks his skin has made me sick – he doesn’t know
what makes us sick (boys like me, fontanelles still shaking)
I never asked. They gave anyway. But I know they will.
(I do not sell myself.
People buy me.
There’s a difference.) Traditionally
such honest whores as I
have not been much enamored
with the customers, who ask to
stay, safe in over-shadowed eyes
and am not an opera, something
ordinary, a lost boy with paper in
his pocket, greasy green and
I don’t know why.
(More poetry, hopefully of an even worse nature, can be found at my journal.)