Spot an Ivy League man
by deck shoes and middle aged
piercing: ear stud.  Permanent stains
of Yeats in memory: to woo.

As department chair, he prowls:
tieless, collar open, chest hair.
Massage oiled and clean,
he mixes a Tom Collins
too well. Skilled in dressage,
he smells of riding crops and gin.
When wife’s gone he’ll invite me
to the horse barn, bend me over,
prove how a thing can feel at ease
when trained to be whipped with leather.