High-slit shorty short-shorts with a neon streak—
smooth scapulas the size of dinner-plates—
a sleeveless skin-
tight T-shirt that says, in cursive script, Sweat is just
pain leaving the body—yes, gym crush knows
how to snag the masochistic gays.
Gym crush could crush a can of Crush
against his forehead, easy. But don’t
get me wrong: he’s no mere beefy bod, no,
his beefy bod’s a beefy pod protecting his beefier brain.
For example: I overheard him say, Posterity! Micro-
aggression! They had no right to banish Galileo!
Damn right they had no right.
I’d like to lick his brain (I’ll bet he tastes like batteries).
In the sauna, gym crush grows
little jewels of sweat on his hairless shoulder.
When he leaves, his ass leaves
a sweat-heart on the wooden slats.
I’d like to be those wooden slats.
I’d like to be
his sweat-heart, sweetheart, sweet-tart, any part
he’ll let me play, I’ll play. His Axe
Body Spray? His week-old tube-socks souring his bag?
The skimpy towel he drapes over his shoulder, sash-like,
so confident in his bouncing junk,
daring me—the boy
who strips & dresses fast, as if the light burns—
to look? Yes. Yes. Once
I spotted gym crush perched
on the edge of a bench, a sledgehammer
dangling between his legs.
What does my handsy handyman do
with such a tool? Probably pounds
tractor tires, or slushes clusters of pumpkins, or punches
craters in the dew-slick grass to make me think
horses, happy horses were there in the night!
I’d like to be a happy horse in the night
(gym crush will ride me till morning).
But first he feeds me sugarcubes.
No, first he whispers hey boy,
then brushes my neck with the back of his hand.