By
GREG
HEWETT
The Best Porn
is just lying back on destroyed sheets watching
the one who occupied your bed last night coming out of the shower.
It’s maybe somewhat slapstick
mostly because you forgot to lay out towels
and he probably thinks you’re asleep and is too polite to wake you
so tiptoes room to room gathering up his clothes, twisting and jerking as he tries not to
drip
all over your hardwood floors,
but also because now that it is morning he more than likely feels
like this is a little like being naked
in public because he’s never known you in daylight.
Though the lighting’s more like in a weepy—crazy
golden beams with dust glittering and turning—
or the end of a disaster flick, the hero among the ruins.
Still, bending over for boxers, he’s sexy only
because he is not
trying too hard like a porn-star, or trying at all.
He’s what you’d call average,
and we all are, and that’s beauty, most especially
when he looks over to your half-closed eyes more
nervous than longing, maybe
indifferent or regretting he ever came
or just perplexed as to whether you’re asleep or not.
Suddenly it is documentary, though you’ve provoked the situation.
18
He offers up some combo of a nod and a shrug
as he unbolts and unlocks the door, leaving
a chain of lakes the length of your apartment you trace with your big toe.
BRN-FALL-2012.indb 18
9/7/12 11:26 PM