Standing shirtless at the curb,
checking messages on his cell.
February, but he’s not disturbed–
a springlike break from wintry hell.
He slides the phone into his jeans,
pulls the dumpster around back,
wobbly wheels making a racket.
Not over-muscled or too lean,
just appealingly ordinary:
old-school tats, nothing crazy,
dark hair and beard, eyes look hazel;
probably the kind you’d eventually marry.
T. Allen Culpepper