Today's poem is by Paul Hostovsky

Taking Off Walt Whitman's Clothes
        after Billy Collins

Myself,
I'm not into men but
those armpits
finer than prayer

kind of piqued
my curiosity. "I'm dead,"
he said, "so you'll have to
do the honors

yourself."
His eyes bore right into me
as I unbuttoned first one button
of his yellowed workman's shirt

and then the other buttons. It was
an overcast morning in Brooklyn,
a scent of the docks in the air,
as I guided his hairy arm

out of its long sleeve,
then raised the arm over his head
in the manner of referees
and prizefighters. A stevedore

gave us a disapproving scowl
as I grazed the nest
of his armpit with my nose. I stopped
somewhere

around there, waiting for him
to sigh or moan or
spur me on, but he was
still dead. So I undid

the father of free verse's belt buckle
and unzipped his fly
and I assumed
that what he assumed

was that I'd go all the way,
and maybe I would have if
I was a better poet.
But instead I ended the poem

too soon. I should have kept going.
It might have been different
from what I supposed,
and luckier.

Copyright © 2024 Paul Hostovsky All rights reserved
from Pitching for the Apostates
Kelsay Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission