and I’m just hoping my jeans fit
after carb-heavy, sad-heavy months.
He says on Instagram: I thought
I was past my sell date. He’s a year younger
than me. At twenty I would’ve traded
brain cells to look how he looks now:
almond nipples, crunched abs, muscles
amped under intricate tattoos:
In the face of adversity sits in clouds
on his beefy shoulder, an angel—pouty,
big-bellied—underneath. Harper, Romeo,
Brooklyn, Cruz—his kid’s hip names
script his back. I never worried about what
I wore or how I looked. I didn’t care about
attention from girls. I just wanted to play soccer.
Last year it was Chris Hemsworth,
and the year before that: Adam Levine.
They must be dead now. I wake up,
and whatever’s happening with it
just happens, he says about his hair.
I’m bald and hungry with a pillow-
y chest, my skin fits looser every day.
(Of course he sleeps naked,
or only in underwear.) David
thinks his fans will be surprised
he’s shy. I think my friends think
I talk too much. The magazine’s
on the floor by my toilet: his cheeky
face a perfect way to start each day.
At least I’m not losing my aim.
2015