The butchers watch the wares walk by
and respect the rules: "No touching!"
No, no. But they can look, slack-jawed
at taught, frostbitten young flesh
encased in stocking-like fabric
They look and admire
and want to hold and pinch
Secretly, they go hold
only their own meat in hand
guiltu in the knowledge that they thought of them was wares
But they'll be back tomorrow
eyeing legs and thighs
and the girls will oogle back
degradeing boys just the same, with eyes and giggles