Call Boy- Version Two

This is another version of a poem previously posted. I have an idea that it was the orignal edit edited further for fear that this would be less welcome, publically, and not for any artistic reason. A writer should not censor self for reasons of fear. If he does, he should give up writing. This re-entry is a reminder of that to myself.
Call Boy- Version Two

rolled
over & under
balding bulk la-
boring into port
like a rudderless
scow, he chews visions

of Ganymede’s spread-
eager- eagled be-
neath greened-god hulks’

or Puerto Rican movie
cops dipping and ri-
sing in motor
cycle roaring
bolero rhythms
into sweet caves
where Jupiter shows
his god-head & his glory,

or collegiate boy next door,
tousled & trembling & brown
virgin smelling of baseball
sweat and pop-corn, sliding
enthusiastically home.

or counts money not yet
safe in his designer jeans.

or counts water-spots on the wall
in metronomic time

the hour is an eternity.

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About elrondsilvermaul

I never know what to say about myself. I let what I write try to speak as to who I am. I can only add, here, that I am 72, live in a nursing home, am twenty years a cancer survivor, and identify as a gay male. I intend to use this blog as storage for poems? written over the long years (and still being written). This does not preclude other uses.
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