#2/30 "On the Subway"

Cake-faced concoctions

coated in leather and bows,

clucking staccato parabolas into the

vectors of disparate hustle underground:

I am trying to contain myself but I want to run my hand

up your stocking-clad thighs, you clank-heeled girls,

and squeeze, hard, the flesh that arches

delicately from your femurs.

What are you made of?

Where are you going in all this sprawling chrome?

Can I rummage through the pockets of your tailored coats?;

I am looking for something I lost or never had.

Catch my irascible eye; I want to

fuck you with it like a man.

You are not the object

of my ire, but you’re pinned to it

like a taxidermied butterfly

or an errant bit of lace

inherited by accident.

I apologize for

glaring, so.