Classic Poem

Tonight, at the bar,
in the Members Only room,
the usual collection of aging " cyclists"
lounge
wearing painfully tight jeans
elaborately arranged to show
maximum amount of cock and balls.
Even in summer a lot of them wear full leather.

Some are young — too young to be so pale,
so negative looking — and wear
that stupid expression resorted to
by those who try to appear indifferent.
They congratulate one another on some
new refinement in their get-ups —
a line of studs outlining their pockets,
a cleverly blocked cowboy hat, a pair
of real German Army boots.

Amid the greetings and badinage
a pool game goes: focus point —
because of the brilliant light bouncing
off its green field —
for involved nonchalance, exhibitions of
strained, tattooed muscles, " baskets",
arching asses.

Cracks are made about someone wearing
mere shoes or — God forbid! — sneakers!
These are The Boys, The Fellas, The Guys.
So, if someone ambiguous enters, sunny
from a lucky weekend, rested from enough sleep,
not drinking at the moment, in a good mood
really —
and is dresed for the heat
in an old open-necked shirt, loose pants
and sandals —
they look up, stir uneasily.
To them, he doesn't project a butch enough image.
The masses of long golden hair don't help.
His smoking a small, delicious cigar is a
gesture too filled with the " wrong" style.
Immediate alienation.

But those who know him,
those who have been to bed with him,
know what they know.
He exchanges greetings with them —
of varying degrees of warmth.
And the sly, furtive, taken gazes
will pass back and forth all night
through the dark smoke.

Sizing up. Sizing up. A puzzle pieced
together: " If A's been to bed with C and
seems to like him, and I've been to bed
with C and we got on fine, then maybe A
would work out for me . . .
And he knows G whom I've always wanted
to make-out with . . . He could tell me
what G digs . . . Guess I better move
over to a better spot so I'll be more
directly in his line of vision . . ."

The clock, which advertises beer,
says half-past two. Tomorrow's a working day.
Yet the bar stays full with a Great Number
yelling from the juke box.
No one wants the night to end yet.
Most hope to connect with someone —
impersonally, in a group, or maybe
personally,
one at a time.