From the soft ridge looking down,
the four-bedroom colonials are straighter
They finally locked up Leo Simonetti,
for indecent exposure
last week, pressed slacks gathered at his ankles,
clutching his hard-on in Miss Plumchin’s
well-pruned mum garden.
In seventh grade, he had more pubic hair
than anyone in gym class.
I had always wanted to have lunch with the stout Mongoloid
from the special education wing
wore a scuffed football helmet with a labyrinth face mask,
maybe ask him why,
though I felt him ramming walls.
Where I am the earth is an old couch:
I’m slipping between cushions.
If only I knew his name, I’d look him up,
stand naked at his doorstep.