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
when you—four-day-stubbled

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.

 

Scott Chalupa lives and writes in an attic apartment with doorjambs barely tall enough for head clearance. A winner of the Howard Moss Poetry Prize, he served on the nominating committee for the 2014/15 Houston Public Poetry series. He is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry at the University of South Carolina in Columbia. His work has appeared/is forthcoming in several venues, including Houston NPR, The Allegheny Review, Houston & Nomadic Voices, and Dark Matter.