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Blue eyes standing over me
too close.
I have to look up to meet them.
Look down.
His chest!
White T-shirt stretched too tight,
a rip across one shoulder.
Flush of heat,
I try not to stare.
Arms crossed,
biceps bulging,
he looks down at me.
His eyes are laughing.
A blondish goatee
--Van Dyke,
the hairs long
and whiskery soft.
Mohawk hair
slicked back in a neat line,
the sides shaved shiny.
He smiles,
reaches into his pocket,
pulls out a ten-dollar bill.
“Normally,
when I give one of these out,
I get a blow-job.”