They are, by common measures,
No wonder people gape. Especially
at him. Each huge ungainly limb
galumphs its nakedness across
whatever acreage the law permits him
to be in. He is a lot to see.
He knows the most secluded corners,
nooks and reaches of nude beaches.
She admires his audacity. She knew
he loved her awkward neck and head.
“So what if people gawk?” she said.
Her questions mainly were rhetorical.
She felt herself becoming allegorical
by merely sitting on his back.
All sense of lack began to fade.
She was a lady with a purpose.
As she sat, wherever she could
manage to, upon his surface,
she’d felt they’d something to proclaim.
They gave dysmorphia a sweeter fame.
Bodies were a metaphor for oddities
one had to drag from here to there.
They’ve long learned not to care
when people stare, or glare.
They joy in being rare.