Day 11 - Cuffs

Since today is another one of those crazy days at the office, made even loonier by the fact that I have Japanese tonight and I haven't cracked my textbook since last week, I shall dispense with all preamble and post posthaste.



Takaaki entered my life as a leopard
Belt being unbuckled at the Y.
Until then, we had not exchanged a word
Apart from that perfunctory, “Hi,”
One naturally nods when in the shower—
Never letting eyes fall any lower
Than chin, if necessary, collarbone,
Careful to leave your ‘well enough’ alone—
Lest anything unseemly rise to blur
The steely line of bubbles separating
Really clean from curious—creating
Questions about conditioners, and whether
Grapefruit is a proper manly scent—
Even in a Thought Experiment.

I was hooked by how that feline belt
Crept through the four tight loops above his rear;
It filled me with four-letter words, which spelt,
“Don’t ruin your Moon trip.” A very weird
Injunction—poetic, perhaps—but it
Bears no relation to immediate
Concerns here, in a crowded locker room:
A cave as cold and moldy as the tomb
Where Romeo is scheduled to meet
His Juliet, when Shakespeare intervenes,
Crossing out the dancing in those scenes.
I sprinkled fungal powder on my feet,
Discretely. As my fairy dust descended,
I wondered if his buckle was befriended

By anything besides his fingertips.
I could, of course, conceive of other suitors—
A bedroom floor, those pant hangers with clips
Coated in red rubber, folding doors
With tiny metal doorknobs—all of this
I could conceive—nor was it my business
Where, after leaving his seductive waist,
His buckle might intend to hang, how chaste
These new companions, if they drink, or stink
Of soiled underwear, or socks, or hold
Silk stockings with more reverence, or cold
Hands in handcuffs, or dead cats. I think
What one discovers on a closet hook
Can tell you more than any tell-all book.