Showerhead

The boy who will later be a polo player
wants me baffled and vertical, utterly

in the hallway, monkey-sudden
on a jungle gym. This is deviation:

I had no designs on altitude, knees
flush to the acrylic; all that yellow

was more light than I can speak against.
He talks dirty in diminutives, bears up

under hot water. In a bar on Valentine’s
he’ll write I FUCKED MR ____ on my

shirt. I’ll say This shirt is my evidence.
He’ll say The evidence is wearing it.