Two by Shane Allison

Doug

Your lips are gum drops in my mouth.

You don't know I'm watching you.

                                                    

Seek your face through visions of a poet's eyeglasses,

Legs collapse into train tracks

                                                   

Pieces of you sketched

on wide-ruled lines of notebook paper.

Reach past a glass of watered down strawberry cola,

Past a plate of chicken bones,

to the telephone dialing your number.                                     

"Is Doug there?" "This is Doug."

I stop sweating and no longer wish you were not home.

Jaime

is that you in gelatin-silver print,

sitting on a hardwood bench?

You know if you sit on hard surfaces

long enough, your dick will fall asleep,

but if you get up and walk it off a little,

the feeling comes back like an ex-boyfriend

who didn't know what he had until

it packed its shit leaving nothing

but dirty dishes and a drawer full of condoms,

extra sensitive for his pleasure.