Game Fail

The men who flirt, their nervous teeth, their jaw
so worried wanting meat, I undertake
to halfway meet and humanize, yet draw
my boundaries in grease, thick not opaque.

Clear comprehension of the dance, helps heart
to be kind, but the dance has ended poor,
too many, many times, to take full part
with carefree carelessness of a voyeur.

And then hot man comes to my desk to seek,
out Emerson, Thoreau. My heart is pound.
My skin is sweat. We talk, my game so weak.
I watch his face and know he is not down.

The role of man, to cast the net, tough chin
rejection stand, is bitter medicine.

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