The man on the train

the Maths 142 exam at the Showgrounds.

He had used

a Reject Shop catalogue

to form a little tent. 
The man at night at the end of my street –

tall, pale, forties, blue shirt, I told the cops.

No, I did not want a patrol.
The man who made my friend at twelve

change schools.
The time late at night

on the tram 19 to Moreland, last stop before depot.

Hydraulics at the doors. A face, brilliant

smiling to the right. The elbow

              going.

I got off. He was carried away

to the silence of the depot shed.

Always I wondered

what happened next.

Did he jizz all night

alone in the cavernous dark

among the sleeping trams, just jizz

              and jizz?

In the morning when he tried to leave

the gates were locked.

              Men began to fall

from a chute in the ceiling. First

they cried out, breaking bones, but the later

arrivals fell on the earlier, and were cushioned.

Women had had enough, had taken the world

              at last. Only the tram depot

was for men now. We were building dildos

out in the world where we were free,

beautiful glistening pink dildos with no

men attached to them at all;

we had seen enough.