His trousers are caked with mud.
His face is smudged and beautiful.
He hasn’t moved.
Is he asleep? Passed out?

Can’t stop looking. Have to
Move down toward him.
His arms have been washed clean.
Soft blond fur covers them.

Our train jerks, speeds forth, turns.
He does not wake.
He’s pliant; a manly rag doll.
I’d like to know what he smells like.

Stops come and go.
Will he miss his? He’s unaware.
Will I miss mine? I can’t
Stop looking.

What’s he dreaming about?

I take his photo.
Seven times.
I hope he doesn’t wake up.
I hope he does.

I want to tie his shoe.
I wonder what kind of man he is.
I wrap him up, pack him away
In my mind.



Text & Image: Kenneth Hill