GOAST named himself Ghost
because The Stallion never stuck,
despite the power in his thighs,
all that carved calf muscle—the speed
you could see before his feet began
to piston on blacktop.
Gorgeous likewise never caught on;
we assured him we’d never call
another dude Gorgeous. It didn’t stop
him from taking off his shirt
whenever the temperature rose above 70.
His sternum, his triceps
and the blades of his shoulders,
all sandstone-shaded, mean
he is gorgeous,
whether we admit it or not.
Maybe Gorgeous would have worked out
If he was a boxer. Think about Sugar or Sweet Pea.
At least he would have a better explanation
for why he ended up in a plaster cast
than some bar insult
that made him break his hand
against a skull. Your temper
is an animal,
Is the cool thing I didn’t say.
I doubt he would have heard me anyway
over the sound of the snarling
thing roaming the cage
of his chest—rising and falling, breath
after breath after gasp.
This is gorgeous.
The shade his skin turned
On a basketball court
After being called Yellow Bitch?
That’s Gorgeous too.
And that blow,
Hoof-sharp
And fury-quick,
Closing one of that fool’s eyes
While opening the brow of above it—
It’s a thing of—my god, y’all—
Maybe you had to see it to know.
