the bald man is obsessed with
patterns, recessed to his
mind’s caverns of
thought about himself in the world

possessed by a clarity he sees
painted on me, but like
life, ultimately
alludes him—
a song he hears, has
heard, no longer consumes him

he is the lack of tail-wag and bluster, of
cardiac muster, night eyes dry and
painfully swollen from the
endless day, betrayed
by the red, fast
holding the blood he
has lost in his own dreaming

sighs, forsooth
fucking bald man

a desire is neither good nor bad, just
makes the future happen, innit—
but the problem with him is
he has none of that
yearning turning around in his brain

it is not selfish to fancy
a ball intensely, it
is the hunger, the
honeyed hankering, which lets me know—
I am alive, I am still waking, I am still making

but he has tired with desire, and the best
part of his day is watching me
perfectly play—
a thing he
wishes he could: a good
game of rope, pull and shake, all
faultless and thoughtless and quaking

or if only he could take a roll in the
cool afternoon grass, or
a piss on
the kitchen floor,
when somebody he
loves walks through the door

TAGS: | |