Man at Pasteur

He is elegantly gay, holding his sexuality
Like a handbag. He tosses it flippantly over
His left shoulder, dropping hips like breadcrumbs.

He holds his lips in a kiss, unkissed.
His eyes could be masculine, but he's
Powdered each iris with graphite.

He stares in a dark grey, a woman grey,
A blank grey that belies the 5 o'clock
Shadow he's wearing at 8 am.

I think I'll follow him for the rest of the day,
See what bridges he stops, doesn't stop, at
See what couples he stares, doesn't stare, at

Marvel at how anger like that tears bread.