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
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.