Tattoos

Tattoos

Don’t talk to me about men dancing on Soul Train reruns.  They do their thing

and leave me in front of the mirror with my hair braided like an Aztec queen,

staring through the shower mist, as if El David walked in naked and I am

drooling at the view.  Forget about saying a prayer, it isn’t Forever I desire,

it’s not even sleeping on the left side of the bed. It’s the sun glowing 
on my back, my midnight train to Istanbul.  Why the skeletons on my
 shoulders?  Because tonight, I’m not the only one that’s lonely.