Undressing Billy Collins

 For Emily Dickinson 

The suit is Italian, tailored 

by the fine hands of a man

who’s known the bodies

of so many men 

Seen shoulders stoop

chests shrink, bellies swelling

all without judgment

in his tape measure confessional

Besides, it means more work

Charcoal, double-breasted

paid for with support

from the National Endowment for the Arts

the jacket is now neatly folded

on the edge of the bed

I have no trouble with the knot

of the tie, the belt unbuckling

buttons up and down to the fly

I’ve done it all before for more

age-appropriate encounters

We’re in White Plains, NY

The day so still you can hear

the money growing on the trees

outside. Enough to just

reach out and pluck a bill

One for each poem

Fold them into the pockets 

of the pants now pooled 

around his hairless ankles

The skin surprises me:

not long for this world

pale parchment 

wordless punctuation 

good for one last binding

As the silk underwear 

slides to the floor

at last

I'm reminded of a haiku

he wrote once

in apparent self-pity

Something about 

a sushi counter 

no one for company but

a limp, lifeless eel