Listing Loon Set: Numero Cinco.

Not in an effort to withdraw or minimize, but to avoid stating the obvious.

This poem explains itself.


My hands will never be clean in
New York City. 

There are so many things they have
to touch.

The train rail,
my water bottle,
the espresso maker,
your dick.

I prefer cock,
dick sounds sophomoric,
but dick it is for now.

Clean. Everything is a variation
on clean. People here try to maintain.

And yet my hands are scuzzy.
I cannot remember yours.

Hardly the feeling of them.

But apt they were,
and deft,
round and round my stomach and
tits
you know your way around.
the L to the R to the F.

I took the F train only once.

So I touch cigarettes
beer steins
hand to mouth and wonder
why I’m sick
congested.

Wonder if you are the
same.

My hands are holy
a gift of productivity
soft skin
touch you

the torso the chest hair
the sweat
thick against my skin.

And yet.

My hands will never be clean in
New York City.

How are yours?

September 19, 2016

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