Caught out in, it's refreshing
these interior monologues
to help remember, a sunshower.
Not too wet, just enough
to compensate for the ablutions
I missed. Again, today,
maybe tonight for a turn. But for now
I lift high my arms; head left,
head right, breathe deep. Ah, I'm alive
I can feel working deep.
Too much product, too sterile. I'm not
a lawn for fertilizer
or other 'cides of the kind. A pitch
like that is only good for kicks
and slide tackles. I prefer to be
left untrampled
by cleats into my ego.
At the chance I've gone too far
I read the bodies nearby,
they say before the mouths
what's in the air
between my soiled armor
and your delicate skin.
Though I hate umbrellas more
there was a time I loathed
my clothing in the rain
drenched to the core. Perhaps
a day will come when you
have left it late for musk
and ruddy cheeks to give
secrets away. My skin
is often sticky,
if you're unready I can wait.
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