In Williamsburgh, surrounded by Hipster thighs,
Stuffed into breeches, and boots with loose laces,
(the tongues hanging out-like thirsty dogs)
I wonder what’s behind those vacant eyes.
Flat buttocks that seem too weak to hold them down
Skinny chicken legs that could not mount a pony,
(Let alone my rearing stallion), these spindly stick figures
Fill every space with their lack. Our shiny, sexless town
Is asking me where all the real men went?
Those lithe, muscular bodies, smelling of hay, I chased
On the prairies of memory. The wilderness of youth
Has left me stranded, a wild horse caught in an urban lament.