churns the throat
yellow, guts lining
red. Yuck. Cum rags

in pocket, tank top
under puffer. Shoved-in,
cracked-open—
we’re piledriven into men

known only through the ass.
The jockstrap, great equalizer,
frames it team sport, ancient athleticism
recaptured as a fumble.

I couldn’t cut it straight
so I flex the belly, masc the scowl,
stick where I belong—crossed
off your list, a thrilling mark. Calculations

of the nose, of features reflected—
fantastic ass taken credit for. Everyone’s dick fits
in their pants, stowed away in briefs—
to say nothing of cold evenings.