there's the delicate matter
of the moment you realize
the woman sitting next to you
on the bus is reading pornography
in her tawny pantsuit, thinly
veiled in unstained pages, the
shape of your eyes now a perfect
reflection of the protagonist's
round, wide mouth.

not so shocking as the time you
glanced out the passenger window
of your girl friend's car to see
a bus full of rowdy men, cheering
on a cum shot.  This from the
company you'd paid good money to
shuttle you to the airport.

or maybe none of it is shocking;
the heaving breath beside you no
less reasonable than the rapper
whispering violence in your ear.
The man who rubbed his eyes all
over you in the bar like linseed oil,
which, if you knew what it was,
you would be embarrassed, deeply ashamed,
to be involved.