The Ancient Greeks Knew This

Young men without women live in a cracked 

and faded rooming house
at the corner of Lehigh Street and University Drive.

A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles 

the face of the house, furnished 

with a lone, derelict sofa.  

The men press their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes; 

the beer is sucked dry and bottles smashed 

against the crumbling pavement below.

Processed meats are tossed over a flaming grill, 

then devoured with ferocious appetites 

while disinterested young women stop
along the sidewalk so their dogs may shit 

on the unkempt lawn.

The men eyeball the women 

and joke about what they'd like to do to them,
and their dogs.  

By afternoon, their blood boils 

from the heat of the day, 

evoking raucous collegiate chants 

and uproarious feats of strength.  

Often, they spar like wrestlers on the lawn.  

Barefoot and bellicose, stripped to their blue jeans, 

sweaty bodies entwine in ritual combat 

punctuated by breathless displays 

of virile comradery —

the chest bump, 

the bear hug, 

the double high five.

To escape their awkwardness, 

the men pour whiskey shots 

and embellish tales of sexual conquest until

the long shadow of fatigue forces

a reluctant surrender.

They retire each to his solitary space.  

And it's a stark, lonely place, that old house, 

beneath the cover of midnight 

when desperate hands slick with desire 

are drawn under soiled sheets 

and hot, August winds shake the rotting timber 

long stood between erotic passions yearning 

to be released and fraternal pleasures 

dared not entertained.