A Sausage Cock

 ( after the poet Sharon Olds )  
 
 
As a man who should be self aware  
like others of his gender,  
I watch him on his own,  
pushing an empty shopping cart  
past the processed meat—  
unconscious that here I am  
just down the aisle by the spice rack,  
where the garlic with parsley, and  
hot Hungarian paprika, stand erect.  
 
The way I imagine his member does,  
encased in denim’s crush of crotch;  
a sausage cock. It’s as if I’m standing  
amid his blond acreage, hardly seeing him  
but for the stalk of corn in a field of wheat.