Actually: it’s the balls I look for, always.
Men in the street, offices, cars, restaurants,
it’s the nuts I imagine—
firm, soft, in hairy sacks
the way they are
down there rigged between the thighs,
the funny way they are.
One in front, a little in front of the other
slightly higher. The way they slip
between your fingers, the way they
slip around in their soft sack.
The way they swing when he walks,
hang down when he bends
over. You see them sometimes bright pink
out of a pair of shorts
when he sits wide and unaware—
the hair sparse and wiry
like that on a poland china pig.
You can see the skin right through—
speckled, with wrinkles like a prune,
but loose, slipping over those kernels
rocking the smooth, small huevos,
so delicate, the cock becomes a diversion,
a masthead overlarge, its flag distracting
from beautiful pebbles beneath.
— Anne McNaughton