There is a man sitting in that chair,
from the way he is as he reads
you would think him a woman.
The manner of back barely touching wood,
unoccupied fingers resting rigid on the outward curve--
I have been beside him,
more animal,
grounded by peripheral glances,
feasting on the knotted muscles of clenched thighs,
We both click every second.
Sweat filters between his lips
that I will receive on my stomach,
to fill scars left by lesser floods
in the dust bowl that I am.