Invisible Men
April 2 2025
A long row
of white porcelain fixtures
gleaming in fluorescent light.
Yet with all of them unoccupied
we somehow ended up
side-by-side,
studying the wall
inches from our noses
in forensic detail.
Who wouldn’t squirm, stuck so close?
And self conscious as I am
the last thing I wanted
was for us to talk.
Because real men, taciturn by nature
don’t gossip, gab, or prattle on,
let alone
have honest conversations.
Not when our throats go dry
when asked how we feel,
not when we don’t even share with our wives.
But he did say something
and I grunted some response,
standing close enough to gag
on the cloying scent
of adolescent cologne.
I shrunk back,
angling myself
while shifting the inch that I could,
never turning to look
and flinching at the fleetest touch.
Not skin, God forbid, but still
body heat’s more than enough;
a trousered hip
or long-sleeved arm
whisked briskly away.
Yet perversely, urinals are installed
closely spaced
against a wall
in a brightly lit room.
So we stand
as if caught red-handed,
hip-to-hip
stiff-upper-lipped
zippers down.
As if an eye witness
behind one-way glass
had us in his sights;
a police lineup
where even the most innocent man
fears wrongful conviction.
We flushed,
then relieved
nodded briefly
while quickly washing our hands.
Hurried out
after having performed together
this most intimate act;
yes, intimate
fully dressed or not.
Eyes front and hands still wet,
invisible men
who also have the superpower
to blind themselves.
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