Confessions of the Wandering Gamete
By Colin Dodds

I heard about your Jesus.
But I’m a different kind of dude.
I find what I like and have at it until I choke,
choke until I embarrass the wide world.

I’m the unshaven man on the subway
with a guitar and a flower,
a wandering gamete on the summer wind.

The sweet and wary woman upstairs
wants me to diddle her all night
but won’t give me more than a tug.

I yelp at the injustice of it,
protest that I’m a man,
and not an accessory to masturbation.

Music ends, kisses dry up, tears run.
The dust settles in disturbing patterns
familiar enough to be my nation’s flag.

Now it’s hard to believe
I left those nipples, those panties
to be back here at the bar,
where the yearning and the rot are amplified
to where the men and women say little else.

I learned long ago that it’s hard
to enjoy someone else’s enjoyments.
But in bed, it ought to be different.
What hopes can I entertain, if not that?

It’s for that hope that I have painted myself
so deep into this corner.

Things fail between the man and the woman.
And a dollar won’t buy a dime.
A million dollars won’t buy a minute’s peace.
And everyone sells themselves short
just to change hands at all.