It's the weekend, and you know what that means.

[apocalypsos]

More poetry!

*

Peek-a-boo

Come out, come out, wherever you are.
That's a joke, of course - we know you're in there,
pants off and laptop on,
streaming British panel shows on YouTube
or writing another unpublished novel.
Now put down the gay male werewolf erotica,
abandon that enormous bag of chips, shove
the purring cat off your lap and
come out, come out, wherever you are

To the bar, the mall, a fancy restaurant
To the front stoop of your cousin's boyfriend's house,
where the beer flows like a burst pipe
and the conversation sparks like July 4th
in the crackling winter air.
Come out, come out,
to the curb outside your own front door,
to the fresh air, the outside world,
to any damn place you want
where people gather to laugh,
packed tight like coffee stirrers
or loose and scattered like spilled sequins,
where people swill water or liquor,
snack and chat and interact,
out in the wide unguarded open.

Just please, please, we're begging you here,
come out, come out, wherever you are.

*

Make It Work

Boy meets girl; Boy measures girl's inseam.
Boy pitters and patters over beige tattered patterns
and hires seamstresses with sharp eyes to shear and to shape.
Boy sticks straight pins in swatches, matches made-up models
with trimmed hems and notched necklines.
Then Boy presents a collection of sublime perfection
to a girl who stalks the runway
or might like to, given half a chance.

*

Kiss With A Fist

Tight abs,
smooth skin,
those divots of muscle
toned and honed
Hold firm, still, strong,
a granite catcher's mitt
for a balled-up fist.

You think of Houdini with
each thump and whoosh,
muscle and bone against muscle and bone.
Houdini died because he wasn't
you, didn't expect a punch
at all hours, didn't see those
scarred knuckles comin'.

People compliment your whipcord middle,
your rope-a-dope stomach,
so you make up an exercise regimen,
one with fewer poundings, less torn flesh,
no bruised kidneys or bloody urine.

You're envied, your twine-and-wire physique,
your running-away legs.
Too bad no one ever asks why you're running.