Day Eight: ‘Here Comes Your Man’

April 8, 2015

Hurrah, hurrah, here comes your sparkling man,
the dapper dude with hair shaved on the sides
and long spring coat that only drug dealers west
of Michigan would dare sport. Here his eyes,
as twin missiles cocked to destroy, match yours,
as I watch from a park bench across the green.

In ecstasy, you peer back, as a bag of green
flies from his unbuttoned coat pocket. Man,
you let slip, this for me? Baby, all yours
to keep. Your smoker and your lover, who sides
with your worst druggy impulses and matches eyes
red for red, crack for splinter, gazing west.

Not just a great provider and Kanye West
buff but a jazz guy too who knows the green
clubs in the Village underground, where eyes
pan curtained stages to witness man
crooning into saxophone, crying out the sides
of his mouth at the baby grand. Again, all yours.

The subterranean passion there, which yours
for him mirrors as much as wet NY mirrors the waterless west.
A hand dives in a tight jean pocket, sides
with the skin, then rests as a scab. “Green
Onions” now in the bar you’ve ducked into — Son of Man
it’s called. I slide in, too. I hide my eyes.

But how can I? Order a beer, shine my eyes
at the floor only, at shoes, but never yours —
those pointy boots. And now, here comes your man
again, with napkin cocktails walking west.
You whisper-shout a wry hello as green
as when you met, but dazzling on the sides.

So, here we are. You with him at your sides
(arms tight) and me in shadow save for glowing eyes.
Just like the senior party with the green
beer fed from a crusty tub, except yours
from a flask. The jig seems up, I oughta flee west.
Say goodbye again. There goes your man.

And when you tire of big coat pantomiming he’s truly yours,
you’ll dump him down the drain and flush him west
and grab another. Here walks one more sparkling man.

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