the hot house flower

leg crossed over knee, with fine display of
tan socks, loose and overwashed socks, j c penney
season 1974, no doubt recovered, no doubt
discarded, or are they beige
?

he may be seeking treasures, in his bold
blue pant, belted closely, firmly held, may be
on the chase, pale arms sheltered in a triumph
of the clorox corporation

as he sits, long fingers tap tap tapping
some times paused, in a delicate rhythm
profane with jazz hip spasm, uncrosses to an act
with startled calf, and smiles

and you whisper, bent incautious, breathless toward
my ear, that you desire him, watch and devour
him, he carries baubles, ragged pages, hair flown
furious, this instant man

but i can't see him, though i strain, though i
could reach across and touch his shadow, hear
some sibilance from his lips, and know they
have a fullness made to blush

and you whisper, mouth unforming, watch
his slowly nodding chin, that you desire him
would caress him, he of the j c penney
season 1974

i'm indecisive, there is a haughty and entirely
demanding, conundrum, where does line go sharp
between the tan and the weighty beige, where
does my fashion sense begin
?

but faced with such fine drama, can i turn away
miss even a mini-episode from your unexpected
gift? here as we sit, and sip our marvels, soy unfatted
doubled, preciously caffeinated

yes, his legs are crossed, eyes star-tossed
or so you say, bent incautious, crassly salivating
and if he wears boxers, paisley manufactures
from the house of sears
?

will you still want him, hot house flower
he may be
?