Ivan was so gay he could taste it & spit up all over;
the girl slipping
in her bare feet in the *****
Ivan wouldn't ever think of cleaning up,
after all, that was women's work
but there was no woman---
only a boy in sparkly tank-top
& short-shorts;
legs as good as any schoolgirl,
voice naturally high
& getting high, Ivan wondered
if she were underage;
the answer was no, she was 18
& Ivan pushed an index finger
into her ******
& she squirmed before settling on
the fact that she couldn't ****
w/ Ivan's finger up there;
Ivan grinned as he did when drunk
& wondered where Igor was
w/ the digital camera
but Igor was out of town
w/ a rich widow
who said she'd pay him
for photography but when Igor asked
about a stipend for Ivan
she balked & said a poet
is not a photographer---'u are reality, the poet is fantasy;
she didn't know Ivan
who never wrote a thing he didn't stick his finger into---