POEM XVII: “Sex-Creed of the Reverse Elitist”

Men’s hands are scented by the work they do.
With a green-black smear of grease and gasoline,
or a powdery exhalation of earth.

Blood-meat and black pepper rim a kitchen thumbnail
and the creases between medical fingers
are glove-gummed with white rubber residue.

The only one you can’t sniff out
by his hands
is the one who’s been in an office all day.

He comes home reeking
of nothing much at all
and when you ask him what he did,
that’s likely what he’ll tell you.

He ain’t lying.

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