The sweet meat of the cock
trusting the dark shark 
of the mouth. The innocence 
of it—how it can’t fake
its childlike greed.  The tongue
travels its ribs and ridges 
touching the curly damp below. A feast
of texture—the cock an obliging guest
at the feast.
                    And the taste of it!
The fishy flesh warm
against the tongue and then
the spurt, a savory custard—puree 
of celery and clams. 
Pure protein.  

And how shyly the cock retreats, 
nesting back into its lair, moist
with gratitude. Yes,
without meaning in any way 
to objectify the male,
and assuming 
reciprocity, variety, and tenderness,
I have to say, for some of us
it’s not a chore.