To show off spring
colors, they've assembled
rows of white ass.
From the back, hips
jut suggestively outward,
small swatches of plastic
covered by panties
in cool greens and blues.
But these are man-hips,
boy-hips in truth,
that line the window
in their garish fluorescence.
No man would contort
himself thus for show,
and I feel dirty letting
these boys thrust for me.
I walk past late at night
and see my own face
superimposed on the bright
briefes, the manifest bulges,
and wonder what they'd like
me to buy, and who would,
from one who would twist
even plastic boys this way.
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