If you were here right now, you would see,

standing fresh from the shower, spilling

virility, a man stupid with life,

cool as a root cellar, patient as wine,

firm as a fence post, prone as a spider

to fling gossamer threads in hope they’ll catch,

a dish facing the galaxies, open like a pig bank

on a chenille bedspread, happy as buttered toast,

with muscles, wrinkles, eye folds over, eye bags under,

not much hair or beard and banged-up knees,

and stitches showing under one eyebrow,

with knowledge of your business cataloged

in how he looks at you, the why of all

your gazing, in whose back you dug your nails.