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Man Ovulates On Train
When this happens, the hunger is a crisis of visions. Any man would do. Or every man. When everyone yells step down without looking up, man hears: bend down turn round wet mine. When wholly hijacked by an inch of skin between shirtsleeve and elbow engaged to answering parallel of seatmate’s bicep, man closes eyes and ovulates faster. Rapid calculus. His shirt is floral: either available or modern enough not to mind, man hopes, remains resolved to drop it like it’s not news. Man ovulating on train is a vision of crisis invisible in every way among the turning avatars, stop to stop. Each face a flattened penny awaiting its keepsake moment. A layman might luck out but why count on it. |
