by Rebecca Wolff (2009 Pushcart Prize Nominee)

Man Tits

Look at that pair,

on the one over there.
He's young, skinny, low
muscle tone, poor, white, under-
educated . . . not looking
at a

on the little patch
of yard in front of his
unfavorably located
rental where he stands, hands
on hips, mutable, conceivable
speculation on the next weekend

But his tits are the good
kind: fat, conical, pale against
the brown of his wife-beater tan,
nipples slightly shiny,
aureolated. Bouncy, native tits
like the ones you like to see.

A Libertine in Albany

At the stoplight
no one looks
when I whip
it out

even though I guessed
Elvis Costello next

even though
I can always tell Led Zeppelin's
coming on

These are my rewards

Next to me in line for comestibles
my grandson

might as well be.

Teach you how to act
by the look in your eyes

like you want to fuck, stupid. Even old
sleepy eyes, in the coffee

line, manifests in the end zone
as a loser in a minivan.

Rebecca Wolff is the author of three books of poetry, most recently The King (W. W. Norton, 2009). Her novel The Beginners is forthcoming in 2011 from Riverhead Books. She is the founding editor of Fence and Fence Books, and a fellow at the New York State Writers Institute. She lives in Athens, New York.