I sit with legs splayed
like an awkward butterfly
my back bent, weakened from boredom.
Grass weaves a pattern across my backside.
The sun bakes my shoulders.
I contemplate the skin
on my inner thigh, bunched like a pair of tube socks
whose elasticity has long since given out.
I formulate a plan of attack involving
elliptical, adductors and wide squats.
I'll start that plan on Monday.
My mind wanders back to your ramblings
I nod occasionally,
until my attentions divert to the whistle escaping
through a space between
teeth too small,
for a man your size.
I study a bead of foam forming at the corners of dry lips
and wonder how you can't feel it.
I wipe at the corners of my mouth, in exaggerated motion,
hoping you take cues.
But then again, if you understood cues
you would see my eyes wandering
from your words, to my thighs, to your foaming mouth,
and you would have shut up an hour ago.