Mate

You’ve got your right hand
And both balls

You’ve got a bottle of Ricard
On the windowsill
And you can spell
Your name.

You don’t forget birthdays
And you’re at ease with
American tourists and toilet
Attendants.

They say too much

You look like Brando
In The Teahouse of August Moon

Or a critically deformed Di Caprio

But you don’t feel it
‘cause there’s no lipstick collars

No tampons in the bathroom
Cabinet

You pass out weekends
And sniff doi choi

You’re not refereed

They don’t discuss what you work on
Or Schrödinger’s cat

So slip a note into a hookers g-string
Bribe a child to nick first edition Hemingway’s
And rest your eyes on stupid murals.