STAR BOY
T. Allen Culpepper
Arriving at the park
to play Frisbee golf,
young and sexy-cute,
with pierced lip,
buzzed hair
and still-innocent eyes,
he lags a bit behind his friend
to strip off his white
ribbed tank
and expose tattoos,
inky braids on upper arms
and between protruding
shoulder blades, but
the striking one a big
red and blue star
stretching from
collar bone to neck.
Sure he might regret it
one of these days
when he’s looking
for a better job
in his twenties
or thirties
or when his skin
grows old
and he’s mowing
the lawn
on a day so hot
he has to lose
his shirt,
but now at seventeen
it looks damn fine
as he raises his arms
to stretch.
So fine in fact
that a cyclist
passing by,
shirt off, nipples ringed,
hormones raging,
obsessed on sight,
slows, circles back,
once and then again,
comes alongside,
thinks, “I want
to stick my tongue
in all the good places,”
but actually says,
“The star tat’s cool,
where’d ya get it?”
Hoping his eyes
will convey the rest.
Star Boy, shy
and obviously straight,
looks down, says,
“Arkansas, thanks,
now I gotta try
to find my disc”
and wanders off
to catch
his friend.
The cyclist, jilted,
feeling sad
in the British sense,
circles slowly, pedals on,
crossing the trail
and one more
pick-up line
off his list.
