I

I am not a man.
My model left too soon with his set of instructions.
Women are my mirrors, reflective and round.
My voice an echo of sibilant sound.
I watch the boys outside my mother's window
playing games mysterious as Mars.
Men are hard to catch
like baseballs.

II

Workman,
under your green shirt, your green pants,
groves, must.
When I pass, you light up.
Butch mask,
emit no sissy whispers.
I'd be cold
as the boys who picked me last.