voluptuousness at the grocery store –
of all places, i’m shore –
distracts me from what i even went there for.
i swear i have the list in-hand:
yellow mustard; country gravy; mini SOS pads,
and a friendly face patrolling should i forget such well-laid plans.
i don’t really want to be here but i am:
adulting is hard but proves i am a man!
another impromptu shopping experience in the can,
til i reach the impulse purchases at the exit door.
the olive-coloured pant tells all.
even Justin Bieber can’t refute a rebuke
to this single truth
although you might catch him being proud –
especially the times when Hailey is around.
Those Baldwins are known to run afoul.
every nerve, every tendon –
enough visual information
to make a guy think he’s got you pegged.
a lighter-hued pant makes us less well-behaved
in public
while we stare at everything below the waist
that we can save for later in your wake
of our own partner’s haste.
when you look at me,
what do you see?
a man aware?
who’s stopped and stares –
whose world is incomplete
without the memory of a face so sweet?
isn’t that the kindest flattery you could receive?
like the loser in the train in that James Blunt song
that everybody danced to at Prom
except me?
that’s what i believed
there was one reason once
to dress that way:
to court a man –
to cultivate our gaze
unless we were shut out in a regalian haze.
or poor. then our cousins would do.
maybe that went for royalty, too?
now there are two:
theory of a daskeman 