The dildo is a laughing matter
until Kathleen Turner, clad in chintz,
regards the torpedo’s pronged tip
and you quip that you lose it
for men who can drive stick.
My face is not a crag’s edge;
I am daily confounded
by locks, light fixtures, and stink bugs’
displays of crypsis in an apartment
I labored to endow with a tarot-reading
gemologist’s sense of which color combinations
would offend the sensibilities of his
most loyal clients, who trek annually
from Scottsdale to his stall at the Tucson Gem Show
and just relish patronizing a funky go-getter’s
ethically sourced enterprise; and, after all,
I am, in your words, a “literary gay” whose
concupiscent entreaties you just relish diverting
into handsy movie dates like a randy but
business-minded border collie. In this movie,
the hottest man is Anthony Perkins’s poppers-
addicted paranoid schizophrenic street preacher,
but you gasp when the vacuous everyman
doffs his shirt and bemoans his marriage
to a mousy housewife I say I relate to.
Your apartment boasts a potpourri of
houseplants not because you are a millennial gay
but because you grew up Mormon on a farm
and are dating a forester on call in Montana.
Neither the number of etiolated leaves
nor your very fine e-portfolio interests me
in your future as a landscape painter.
Paul Bisagni is a lapsed classicist and current MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Idaho. His poems can be found in TIMBER, Guesthouse, Afterno