A March of Yoga Pants in the Sun

A few brittle flakes of flesh fall to
the standard grey University desk in front of me.

Evidence of one memorable bench-sit sunning had brought me gifts today,
parts of me and more.

They came in gaggles of yoga pants, sparkling wet sidewalk pools—dripping,
and the wafted smell of thawing topsoil.

These odors damp and dank, some familiar and sweet, natürlich;
smells a boy can never forget.

Sharing words of Baudelaire and Schadenfreude,
Chaucer and April—but, hypocrite reader, you are not guilty,

it is I with the pen and the paper and the view and the thought in mind—
These other student-creatures saunter forward naked, empty, out of

static blasé bundles of winter climes, too Springtime is due, unawares.
I smile at the idea of my taut semi-reddened flesh, dried and cooked

in yesterday’s ultraviolet rays—as my significant other warns of skin cancer,
but this is my proud ignorant trophy to own.

I can only thin-lipped big-tooth express, and fiddle with dead skin cells
as they rest on my desk in cross-shadows and heated-light.

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