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.
Stef Is Writing 