When I haven’t been kissed in a long time, 
I walk behind well-dressed women 
on cold December mornings and shovel 
the steamy exhalations pluming from their lips 
down my throat with both hands, hoping 
a single molecule will cling to my lungs. 

I sneak into the ladies room of a fancy 
restaurant, dig in the trashcan for a napkin 
where a woman checked her lipstick, 
then go home, light candles, put on Barry White, 
and press the napkin all over my body. 

I think leeches are the most romantic creatures, 
because all they want to do is kiss. If only 
someone invented a kinder, gentler leech, 
I’d paint it bright pink and pretend 
Winona Ryder’s lips crawled off her face, 
up my thigh, and were sucking on my swollen 

bicep. When I haven’t been kissed, 
I create civil disturbances,  then insult 
the cops who show up, till one grabs me 
by the collar and hurls me against the squad car, 
so I can remember, at least for a moment, 
what it’s like to be touched.