On Foot

We're adults now, you and me,
Somewhere past the carefree childhood
fuck-all to the fuck-each-other,
looking up from my essays on transgender
composition theory at you and your
zen and motorcycle maintenance,
or, rather, to the book eclipsing your face;
My gaze is drawn to your chiseled legs,
feet slender with a perfect arch, your
hand laying limp on the belt line
of a perfect torso -
I look at my feet, too, protruding from
beyond your computer in my lap,
and I realize how big we are, how
adult we are - making our own way,
carving out livelihoods,
our paths of sexuality and
identity, all on our own - on foot, even.
And this is the texture of our future,
of us, of our lives, of the
biopolitics of the nation we'd be anxious
to leave -
though for now I'm content to sip
my tea and ogle you behind your book
until its time for those perfect arches
to carry you to bed with me.

7/29