taste

the football players are built like refrigerators.
except for the quarterback.
the quarterback is built like a textbook anatomical drawing
of the ideal husband and perfect god-like guy. everything
is in just-right proportion. chest, hands, lips,
trachea branching into two perfectly symmetrical bronchi,
scrotum perfectly bi-lobed, testes nestling within, just
behind the relaxed fit of the quintessentially exquisite dick.
the quarterback stands there half-naked among
the refrigerators,
and he looks so out of place in his utter perfection
that it's difficult not to
wonder if the others think of him as not
really one of them, as a representative of
another species perhaps, and if
they picture a quick sudden
whirlwind carrying him away,
touseling his hair,
roughing up his balls, chafing the pink tight skin of
his lightly furred and inner thighs.
nobody says anything, but when
the quarterback strips down for his shower,
the refrigerators
crank out the ice cubes,
and then watch them melt.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem appeared in DNA, Issue #166. It first appeared in Underground Voices Magazine, August 2010.)