David in Cumberland
For Ben Roy
I had to take a wicked pee just outside of P-Town,
cursed myself for having stopped for that coffee
(the culprit) at a subpar Cumby's two towns back.
Eastham does a much better Cumberland,
a veritable cathedral compared to that dingy franchise.
I needed gas besides, so I pulled off Route 6
and under my breath sang that middle-aged madrigal
Don't pee! Don't pee! Don't pee!
I sang it all the way to the doors of Cumberland, which
slid open sans my touch, broadcasting a bronze glow upon
the backs of my fellow pilgrims whose unevenly tanned arms
cradled Frescas and Bugles and Grinders Ready-To-Eat.
I followed the sign to my assigned silhouette,
reached for the knob whose chartreuse crescent
read Vacant. And reader, I believed it!
Had it read Take the Red Pill, I would have
swallowed it (I had to go that bad).
But the door stuck, so I leaned on it, broke
in just in time to catch a glimpse of him, a buck
naked boy, in a pose Michelangelo could have gotten
behind (well, probably DaVinci and Botticelli, too).
He was taught, chiseled, hewed—though his right knee,
in a firm contrapposto, denied me the full view.
In his left hand, held high above his heads,
Not a slingshot but his cell phone, about to take a selfie
of his sex—Fuck! Sorry!
God. He. Was. So. Beautiful.
We took in breath together, but without ever
taking his eye off the eye of his iPhone, he reached
up with his free hand and slammed the door in my stunned
lesbian face. With no GPS to direct me where to look next
and my pelvic floor immediately shocked into fortitude,
I speed-sidled up to the nearest Gondola shelf full of stuff
and became absolutely fascinated by the juxtaposition of motor oil
and baked beans. My marbled legs were weighted, but my need
to confess weighed heavier, and so (in my head) I apologized
to every gay man I have ever known that it had been me
who broke in to that bathroom, and not one of them.
When he emerged from the Ladies Room in his Goth veil
of sweatpants and tee, not one traveler recognized him as the high
Renaissance piece of art he was. Reader, I followed him outside,
slid my debit card down the magnetic strip, and pumped gas
while I studied him, watched how he pranced and posed,
weaved in and out amid the army of Cumberland’s cement phalli,
touching the tip of each with one aquamarine fingernail,
this fine, gentle boy—this boychik.
So sure was I then he must be dreaming
of when he could put his clothes off again,
when Jonathan would pull up in his convertible Jag
and tell him get in, whisper unto him
Whatever you yourself desire,
I will do it for you.
