is something a porn star might say
using a deceptively mundane tone
in the midst of a job interview
at a Santa Monica café. He might
slide a polaroid across the table
nudging aside a basket of hand-cut
fries and a small tin of lemon aioli
so the man in sunglasses could
make sense of his tumescence.
What if that producer began to sing
in gorgeously enunciated Italian:
an aria of unornamented intonation
that bespoke genuine emotion
regarding the loneliness of the flesh
caught in a flashbulb and framed
like some sort of battered criminal.
Would the rest of the seated crowd
raise their voice in swollen chorus?
Perhaps the man who slid the picture
would fall to his knees weeping,
astonished at the understanding
finally granted to his member,
astonished to have found himself
crying in a poem about his cock.
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