men.
nights.
spanish and beer and hearts and dancing.
life is made of these, and work is wanting.
large and indifferent,
the space I take up seems made for the pleasure of others
and the viewer decides
the viewer always wins.

the doing seeps out,
spills out for the lapping.
lukewarm milk,
full breasts,
green eyes,
toothy smile.

what is it made of?
that which is pushed into the hands of so many men.

"no, you have it,"
grasp his wrist, slide it into his palm,
close his fingers towards his chest.
it is not a matter of deserving, but of habit.
if you always give it up, how do you learn to keep it?
when you try, it empties out somehow, anyway.
just leaves.
empty.