His neck was stiff
from watching the street
for me
who’d buy him.

I came by around
4 a.m. “No luck?”
“It’s been slow
all night,” he said.

I couldn’t see why.
He was blond
and maybe twenty
with eyes you would steal.

Not like the ghosts
on most corners,—
guys so bored
they beg to be beaten.

I’d have bought him
but he needed
more than I had
for less than I wanted.

We stood all night
approached by no one,
while creeps were
snatched up like teens.

I smoked his cigarettes.
He leaned back,
and the sun crept up
on our weight and our ages,

Until cars wouldn’t slow
and heads didn’t turn—
we turned and walked
home, to our darkness.

— Dennis Cooper