Your lips are gum drops in my mouth.
You don't know I'm watching you.
Seek your face through visions of a poet's eyeglasses,
Legs collapse into train tracks
Pieces of you sketched
on wide-ruled lines of notebook paper.
Reach past a glass of watered down strawberry cola,
Past a plate of chicken bones,
to the telephone dialing your number.
"Is Doug there?" "This is Doug."
I stop sweating and no longer wish you were not home.
is that you in gelatin-silver print,
sitting on a hardwood bench?
You know if you sit on hard surfaces
long enough, your dick will fall asleep,
but if you get up and walk it off a little,
the feeling comes back like an ex-boyfriend
who didn't know what he had until
it packed its shit leaving nothing
but dirty dishes and a drawer full of condoms,
extra sensitive for his pleasure.