• I.

    Penning a poem is stripping in a public place
    an ordinary boy, stripping
    while grandmothers clutch at walkers and
    brown-eyed girls cast meek glances at the
    track and Mr. Policeman feels his pistol and struts
    around benches, telephones, and maps.

    The underground chill is tangible, all the heat
    sucked away with a collective gasp.
    Whispers hiss.
    He can feel your moist eyeballs pressed to his skin.
    Shivers, pathetic bristling hairs--
    Shame on a platter, eat it, eat him--
    cutting disgrace.
    Pride will bleed all over the place...


    Leave your clothes on, poetry is for dead men.