Poetry: “KJ’s Feet”, by Craig Cotter
Not a callous.
Each nail clear.
Cuticles naturally, symmetrically edged.
Scent gets me hard.
Size 12.
Twenty-four.
Every other surface
(dark black hair)
perfect. Perfect scent.
You drink steadily
Absolut Cape Cod
That monstrosity, what’s it called, she said.
The Pomapdour Center?
Yeah that’s it.
Great Rivers cardboard sculpture.
KJ your 6-foot
140 pound twink body
Nothing better in my life.
Only things equal.
The Nobel Prize in Literature
for lifetime achievement
could only equal your body
and sweet nature.
Sitting on the edge of my bed
your feet in white socks and black and white
tennis shoes
telling me about your boys, girls,
computer-animation free-lance.
*
[Take a good long pause here.
Take a half-hour walk or run
or swim—break—
then get back to this poem.
Seriously if you don’t do one
you’ll miss the experience.]
*
Every night I don’t look for you
but about five nights a week.
Looked through Zurich and Pattaya.
Everything disappears!
Not a hair on your chest
or flat stomach.
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