live in a cracked and faded rooming house
at the corner of Lehigh Street
and University Drive.
A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles
A bare, wrought-iron porch straddles
the face of the house,
furnished with a lone, derelict sofa.
The men grind their backs into the sofa springs,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes,
purse their lips on beer bottles and cigarettes,
the bottles sucked dry then smashed
against the pavement below.
Packaged meats are slapped onto a flaming grill,
Packaged meats are slapped onto a flaming grill,
split and blistered, 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.
and their dogs.
By afternoon, their blood boils
from the heat of the day,
evoking raucous collegiate chants
and uproarious feats of strength.
They spar like wrestlers in the palestra,
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 retreat, 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
they dare not name.
