He couldn’t tear himself away from swirling
curls that coaxed his chest; shedding in the hands
of Floyd, a sexy funk bass queen of a barber
who occasionally bit at hunks of hair coated
neck, pulling away with a moustache of her
own. She wants to turn me on, get me off,
he thinks, I just can’t fucking help myself
as he takes off his shirt, his pants next
and an orange bumble-bee clinging tight,
emphasizing the thighs. His male friends
often would take glances, but she took
no mind because those outside
didn’t want to become the naked echoes
of themselves, eating his food and eating
each other (eating each other with pants
on), attentions averted away from her
exposed leopard print skin and hair
and hair and hair.
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