The waiter's ass sways like a cypress
in the breeze as he carries lunch trays
up a flight of stairs. Reed slim and dark

rich loam from the Carolinas, he's not
my type anymore: I've outgrown
young men like that, filled out to appreciate
thickness, density, weight: men with legs

like tree trunks, ripe apple full biceps
a temptation waiting to be eaten,
chests like grassy savannahs, wild plains
overrun with slightly graying hair.
But sometimes a breeze from my youth comes up

envelops me with the scent of discarded skin,
the men I've left behind, hypnotizes with
a sway and gentle shake, leaves my mouth
watering, tongue babbling like a sylvan brook.