Back Hair
by Thomas Luedtke


those first adventitious and optimistic whiskers,
shadows folding into my face like silhouettes
of trees lengthening along bare earth,
the town meeting discussing
plans for prolonged and expanded production,
or thought it all a period piece
to be moved through and left behind
like orthodontia.

This is surely a distant and happy revenge,
somewhere there is a big man
in a big chair behind a big desk,
outlining the future construction
a lunch-meeting spent storyboarding my lingering film-noir nightmares:
mold overtaking an orange, grass growing unchecked,
moons shaped like saucers, unblinking over long low fires,
all looped relentlessly, existing simultaneously
like rows of clocks in an office
where people work quickly, unaware of a deadline.

Dressed in a coffee mug and asking if I'd seen his pants,
his back a collection of flimsy dark galaxies
I wish someone were with me,
someone who could listen when I tell the man
he's been naked for years.

But I am alone with him,
putting my lips between my front teeth
to keep from saying anything more.






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