I tug at my stocking
for this midpoint of my existence
in bitter mercy.
A rusty ten-foot statue with holes,
a hollow man
or a burn victim with patches of skin erased,
leaving a space more ghastly than nothing,
as if veins had been there,
bloody bones, tissue.
The towering statue oversees my leg
as I roll down my snagged nylon.
I can see the gallery walls on the other side
right through this Frankenstein.
Men without bodies terrify me.
My shoulders crawl when I exit the gallery,
my thigh highs
straight as a desert road—
not daring to look back at what I might become.