Keith Haring, I wish I had a dick for you (1/19/11)

I have a feeling
I’m choosing the wrong men.
Whichever folded slip of paper
that grants me the privilege

of selection
whether through fate,

or consequence,

(I'm not picky)

when I withdraw my hand
aims my attention
toward whoever’s pants
to insert it into next.

And that pair of beaded earrings
I bought in Chinatown,

for six bucks,
that I flung on your nightstand
when their swing became

distracting,
and those almost, but not quite,
brand new leggings
with the pre-made rips
crumpled somewhere
among your used boxers,
that I abandoned
in a hurry to creep out
while you were asleep,
I’ll just have to do without,

since I've been getting by

with no dignity.