golden boys

you sling your heels over your shoulders
as you leave another hotel room,
breasts stuffed with tissues and bills.
it's something like three,
but you don't wear a watch--
strangle your wrists with presents
from tiffany's,
and there's no one to answer to.
i watch you as you adjust your wigs,
spit the blood from your teeth,
tip-toe through glass,
spotlighted on another street.
i resist the urge to call your name,
not "candi"
but another name,
maybe your mother named you george,
but you never knew him.
a john pulls up and lowers a window,
what's left of your manhood peeks out
and sags,
prickled hair he's learned to ignore,
when he closes his eyes
to thrust and pull out
to make a mess of you
and your skirt.
i wonder about you, golden boy;
someone must know where you sleep,
and i don't know guilt
as well as you know defeat.