Courtesy of George Chelebiev/Flickr.
Whose hands are these I think I know.
In my pants, in the neon glow
of the THRASHER sign above
the toilet, summer is just beginning
to swelter. “No Hands” is on the radio
no shit is tagged across the plywood
wall, across the mirror I tip into
like tipping might pour out
the distance between this body
& the one I cain’t ever seem
to touch. Enough. My thighs
aren’t yet sore from the thrust
of the needle against some phrase
you probably read once & never
again. Not so here. Not so
fast; I’m already puckering
for a photo finish that won’t come
home with me or you. You’re
probably at the pool. You’re
probably eating a sandwich
with these fingers right now.