Brandon's turned on the heat this summer

so the apartment and fucking would be hotter.  

We were supposed to have lunch,

but he stood me up

for a daddy with a black and gray buzz cut.  

Now I'm alone in Barnes & Noble

pretending to read a literary magazine,

but really it's lipsticked men

in square-cut Speedos,

fur hats and dog collars and sunglasses.  

The one I've named Toby has a rested look,

he's been kept and fed, washed and fucked—

I'm sure he's a great conversationalist,

is generous with his time,

kind to children,

and would like a guy with a farmer's tan,

if he only got to know me.  

A woman has knocked all the Vogues off the shelf,

and a fat man is picking them up—

I hate her for not helping him,

for not looking at him,

saying, thank you.  

The sidewalks outside are blazing,

are gum-smashed and smoked-on,

ruined with strollers.  

Nancy loves when it's hot in the city—

People who are cranky are closer to a revolution. 

The models in Out are sweating,

and in Attitude and in Instinct and Genre.

Even inside the store I'm sweating.

The fat man is wiping his brow now.

Vogue bitch is wiping her brow now. 

Brandon's inside his apartment sweating,

and salt-and-pepper man's inside Brandon,

both of them sweating on his mismatched sheets.
 

Jan calls to tell me she loves

him now because he's had

a sad life.   I tell her I don't

feel sorry for him because

I'm sure he has good credit.  

It's not that he's just hot ,

she says.   I bet he's really

dirty, too—like he'd spit

in your asshole and make you

lead him around the room

by his thick cock.   Now

I'm watching her shove

all her fingers inside, pull them

out slick and shiny from his

mouth, as if she's been gnawing