Spy

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This is the love poem for the boys I knew

in seventh grade who I watched close enough

to measure the exact amount of wet

on their slightly open lips — close enough

to count eyelashes as they took secret

looks at Playboy magazines I smuggled

into school just so I could watch them peek

at what we were all supposed to look at;

except me — incognito — odd boy out

who knew what they wanted because watching

them was what I wanted: to see them breathe

a bit and shift in their seats while science

or math passed over our heads flushed with heat

— a way of feeling just a little like

what it meant to be a boy in seventh

grade seeing almost what he yearned to see.