Tectonics

Bozeman, 1980

The ground trembles below my feet

Yet this is not the subduction zone

I find an empty toilet stall with cave paintings

Tiles for obscenity, consequence, and tic-tac-toe

The rickshaw of anonymity turns molten

A teenaged boy preens in the mirror

I smell rubbing alcohol and hexachlorophene

He does isometrics and yoga

I sit with my pants draped on my shoes

On a tilt-a-whirl of indifference, a crack

Of light dissects this canted fresco

The boy has fastened a Frisbee to his netsuke

And has turned to the mirror to flex