by John Grey

Saw you out with, what's-his-name --Thomas Ford
the butcher's son who used to catch flies in high school,
the insect that is, trapped them in his palm then
squeezed so tight, the damn creatures popped.
You were holding the hand that used to be all
blood and wing and, down in the cracks, the
minute gristle that's life when there's no living to interfere.
Better T Ford I suppose than the various nose pickers,
or the wannabe grease jockeys with their mitts
forever in the oily arm-pits of their old man's car.
And there were even some we said washed up
in toilet bowls, each finger a rush hour of germs,
each one more bubonic than the last.
Wouldn't want you grabbing onto that kind of history,
you with your innocent pink flesh, nails as clear and clean
and haughty as the French windows in a rich man's house.
I used to feel bad handing you my guitar playing digits,
the hard growths on the fret-gripping tips.
There were times we walked together when I wished
for a tiny baby's paw to nestle in yours,
soft, almost transparent, and masturbation free.
But, all the same, I hope you're happy with dead insects,
the filth of it all counteracted by that certain skill it takes
to nail a living creature in mid-flight.
If you're to love a man then you must love all of him, I figure;
what his heart feels, where his hands have been.