Robert Auld

Waiter from the 99

I wear my skin like a fitted sheet,
like the one I've had on my bed since he left me.
Since I moved here, there's no food here.
When I look in the mirror it's hard to look sexy.

You say you want to take pictures of me
in your jockstrap. I think and imagine
it looks good on me, but I don't love you,
or anything. What I need is to be

wrung out but never dried,
never dry-eyed, never bent in pain
over a guy who cried about his grandmother
then jacked off to nudes of some waiter from the 99.

There are no screens in the window of my new apartment.
At night the bugs come in,
catch me staring at the wall again