The man with the long legs

I see him walking,

high heeled ,

and flitting quickly

and urgently

out of doors in shops,

eyes looking around

in certainty

and uncertainty,

made up and made down.


His short dresses

from the opportunity shop

show his model’s legs,



not hiding

the feminine

and the masculine.


The public eyes gaze

and then turn away

with a short

repentent smile

and a whisper

whose subject

is all too clear.


I see his long legs


in fast courageous steps

that seem to defy categories,

but can never outrun them;

and he walks to say who is is

and who he is not.


I have never dared

to speak to him

or look in his eyes,

though that says

more of me

than of him.

But I do sense

his aloneness

in the world

as enigma in a place

that is not enigmatic.


The man with the long legs

keeps walking

the streets

with his white skin flashing;

with his bare legs

declaring that his body is his;

his body is his

to show in his way;

his body is his

in a performance

to the world.