Therapy
He likes them naked –
their moth white throats,
the way they pull their coats closer against them.
The way, sometimes, their breath
in the middle of a sentence, stops short
as a girl in a carpark.
Come on, what are you afraid of?
His hand, and the right paradigm,
placed just so.
It’s usually enough.
When it isn’t he jots paranoia,
hyper-active imagination.
He likes them naked –
feels thick with pleasure when they crack like eggs
there behind the Venetian blinds
there in the hush of his own small office,
with dust falling like white noise
and their papery, papery shells
the sheer weight of them
between his fingers.