The Fountains of Youth

The guy with dreads, in nothing but boots,

stands shoulders above the passing men.

A few dart for him, the way fish will for bread.

One laps his armpit.

Another (slight underbite, strong Roman

nose), pulls his face down, hungry

for a pearl of spit, then drops to his knees,

the word please tattooed

across the small of  his back. Like something

out of Caravaggio or another master

of shadow and light, we swim

from a black sea into the shallow red pools

of the exit lights, to feed,

to be fed. It’s not exactly love I see

but it’s not not love, these strangers

ministering to strangers’ needs.

This time of year, the bodegas

burst with lilacs. I carry to bed

the scent of salt and brine

and a tenderness that tightens

the skin as it dries.