In Goes The Man

A dirty leather jacket walks into the room
Topped by a dusty head of hair
With a shaggy mustache
The whole biker assemblage stops

Right in the center of the room
Facing the dressing mirror
To stare

A hand reaches up and strokes the mustache
Ruffles the windblown dusty mop
Then unzips the jacket
Taking it off and tossing it onto a chair

The dirty white t-shirt
If white was what it once was
Taught against lean muscles
Soon joining the jacket
On the chair
In the corner of the room

The torso revealed
The grim dream of every guy
For one reason or another

No Mr Universe
But lightly defined
With the odd scar
Here and now there

Sitting himself down in a chair
Dirty old boots and jeans
Which sport an impossibly large
Dinner plate of a belt buckle
Gets tossed with the rest

Stocking feet make invisible tracks
For the bright clean place
The porcelain white of a bath
Steam filling the room

Clouding perception
Even as it cleans pores

Socks and underwear
Fly through the air
Landing silently
Next to all the rest

The bathwater is warm