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Cross Country Practice |
Here come those four o’clock boys,
shirtless and dripping, all wearing shorts,
pounding ghetto street in staccato rhythm,
every stomach flat, every nipple hard,
every hair flying perfectly out of place.
Cinematic in their leanness and forward motion,
they are a pride, a pack, a herd,
an Aryan nation wet dream, every one a prom king,
despite their color and height,
they all become big blonde muscle boys,
vivisected from neck to knee.
I see where all the eyes go, where tongues
cannot follow.
Not at this distance, not in this lifetime, mister.
Better pick a favorite, better catch a fantasy,
they’re doing the minute mile.
I glance around for the knowing looks, a few leers,
a lewd gesture, but all I see are slack jawed men,
so ordinary in their sedans, so old, so out of shape, so married,
taking no joy in the beauty that sprints off the curb.
There is sadness and resignation, and no heads turn,
only watches those boys disappear in the rearview
mirror, each one summoning a loss, drowning there,
until the light turns green again.
copyright 2005
Collin
Kelley |
