She told me
On the company phone
To grip it tightly
And take it
To the men’s room
On the third floor,
And with my head
Filled with images of her
I comply,
Trying not to stroke it
Too hard
Until I reach
The privacy of the stall,
Exposed even when
Unexposed
The thin metal walls
And pathetic latch
Between me
And the parade of men
Coming and going,
Leaving their pee
In an unflushed toilet,
While I do what
She told me to do,
Feeling it grow
With each stroke
Of the palm of my hand,
Gripping it
As if scared it might
Slip away
Between the strokes
Up and down,
If not in and out,
All the with memory
Of her face,
Her mouth,
Her lips
Her hips
In my head,
An indelible portrait
That made it all
Possible,
And now,
Even two years later
In a much more
Private space,
I have repeated
This ritual
So many times,
I can’t imagine
Doing it any other way
Or with any other
Picture in my mind,
A secret I keep
Telling no one,
Least of all her.
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