It’s 14º, dry at the Jackson St. station,
and I’m waiting
for the Blue Line to Bucktown.
Some late-40s bro strokes his acoustic,
his graveled falsetto slides
through his “Man in the Mirror”
encore. Cruising the silent tracks
of the L, I can guess
where their lingering caress might
take me. I’m studying a pint bottle, killed
and tossed against the cold, live rail
in your pea coat—surprise me
from behind. Cup my mouth.
Manhandle my cock. Bite my lip.
Make me forget winter.
I’ll dream I’m a sailor,
and you, Genet,
are my first.