He...

He stands, not too far from the house.
The house with red walls.
His shoes: black and shiny. His legs
Are thin. He enjoys looking in the mirror; seeing
His body from another person’s perspective. A Mandolin
Plays. He is of foreign stature.

Dark, rugged, tall.
A lot of women appreciate his art. He
Cares not. He hates their delicate features. He
Hates their breasts. Animal-like lumps, representing unweaned
Infants. He could not say this out loud. His fear is rejection.
This fiasco could ruin him..

He likes to drink; the ones that cause you to wince. Real men
Resent ice. “No rocks please, Madam.”
He likes nothing more than when the women leave for tea and all
The men drink and converse. He was often the one
Left to carry Domingo home – maybe this way he
Can gather some truth.

He adores his drawings. He wondered if anyone
Saw them the same way he did. Or if his cultivated, obscure
Vision changed the meaning of everything.
He hopes so. He feels his poetic and artistic soul could be terminal.
Forever. Deemed to be forgotten. Or remembered. He
Longs for the touch of his effeminate hands,

Holding the paintbrush as it glides across the blank canvas. If
Only. They talk. They jibe! They ride, they run, they swim,
They dance…                              They kiss.. His Hair
Feels smooth as the waves brushing against the gentle sand; millions
Of years of grinding. They laugh, they touch,
They Fall.

They fall
They fall.
Loud footsteps, Angered voices; Batons, hats, belts! Not one
But two, three, ten.
He struggles in dishabille.
The crowd: they laugh. They throw.

He burns, Oh! How his heart is like the broken tree. He wilts.
Salty clear tears
Drop.
They count 5..
He looks up in terror
4..

He sees a comforting eye. 3..
The swift turn of a tailored jacket
2..
Crestfallen.
1..
Click.