With a cropped top of hair
and gangle legs I am still the kid
that lanked across’t the soccer yard
guffawing. Spitting seeds of silver spit.
I whistle down the alley and grin you over
for one of my little Mabinogions
with lotsa “fucks” and “shits”
and we huddle in all conspiratorial
about which girls’ll give it out.
And the winter steam becomes our breaths.
It’s all bullshit, what I do now.
I make up the nice-guy stuff as I go
from phones to rooms and fucking fax machines.
Yacking straight-john to the stiffs I know.
Sure as shit, they’ll getchya.
That’s a ballpoint pen, not a jackknife.
And that little courtyard at the office park?
That ain’t no soccer yard neether.