You see me sit here, my pen hovering over a notebook.
It's like watching me wash my privates in the shop window.
I say it like that because it makes us both more uncomfortable.
It would be better if I just said cunt.

But here I am writing in front of everyone
so plainly wrapped in what I'm doing
in some sort of private trance
in some lustful state over words I seem to see
a hundred yards away.
If I could catch them and put them down

peg them down like butterflies to a cork board with my
pen to this page

I might smile less ironically.
I could sigh with a rattling exhale, and roll
onto my back, spent and sweaty, slick with
my wordy cum and here
right here in this cafe
my eyes would glaze with the heady satisfaction of having put down
one jaw-jutting, chest-heaving, pelvis-shaking
word.