Neighbourhood

The young man has finished his lunch
and is picking his teeth behind his hand.
The bird scratches in the cage, showering
him with canary seed and bird droppings.
I consider picking one’s teeth unsightly;
he only went to primary school
and his bad grammar grates on me.
But he’s got a man’s rump so seductive
I fall desperately in love with him.
Young men like him
like to wolf their food:
beef and rice, a slice of tomato
and off to the movies
with that face of invincible weakness
for capital sins.
I feel so intimate, simple,
so touchable – because of love,
a slow samba,
because of the fact that we’re going to die
and a refrigerator is a wonderful thing,
and the crucifix his mother gave him,
its gold chain against that frail chest –
that …
He scrapes at his teeth with the toothpick,
he scrapes at my strumpet heart.