The Delivery Man (sort of after the Elvis Costello song and written very early this morning)

Your seams stretch tight like crocodile’s teeth as you supplicate.

Khaki khaki moves apart. You bend.

White T-shirt. Roll up those sleeves, baby,

Make me your queen of the drop off

Hard-curved calves, biceps, steel-tipped boots

Show me yourself

I didn’t catch your tattoo’s story

Too busy delving into the musk sweat of a thousand porches and side gates.

I like the sweet smell of a brown bin.

I could talk about your hands, but I bet

they all

write about your hands in their red books.

In the window like flies

waiting for anyone to arrive.

Author: nefny

Getting on with it.

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