I waited for the bus so long—my transfer expired.
When the bus finally arrived a radicalized youth
chucked a rock at it (clank!) & it swerved into traffic.
“Young Man!” I shouted but he glared at me in a way
that knocked my body out of my body & I witnessed
50 vibrations of my own ruddy countenance before
the grand lens refocused itself—I walked beneath
the dirtiest of oaks, the nuttiest of silver clouds.
People should play coital instead of playing coy.
(Who was that Barbara Streisand character? Coit’l?)
How does the eye slip a button through a buttonhole?
How does the eye unzip the zipper, tooth by tooth?
A nudist can be undressed twice, same as you & you.
There are two tempers to each person; both are bare.
Dan Gutstein is the author of two collections — non/fiction (flash fiction, Edge Books) and Bloodcoal & Honey (poems, WWPH) — and numerous pieces in magazines and anthologies. Recently, Gutstein’s writing has appeared in Upstairs at Duroc, apt, The Literary Review, Ping Pong, and West Wind Review.