From GethsemaneMaundy Thursday, and you go to a gay bar alone.
Fernan, the floor manager, makes talk.
Softsell, hardsell, in that order. He removes
his earring and starts playing it in his mouth,
rolling it along his lips like the stud
whose future he sells down a river of spit.
You’re new here, what’s your trip? That tall one
with acne is eight inches. Just slightly used,
so you’ll have to teach him a few tricks.
Don’t worry, he learns faster than you can come
to conclude he’s not worth it.
That dark boy is a master. No complaints
from customers so far. No shame. He can lick
your feet clean like a dog, or moan
crazy as a rutting cat. You look impressed
and ask him how come he knew such things.
He smiles, checks his watch
and swears the night is agonizingly slow
for Frida
