Am I too old?              Nah,

I’ve yet to wear

my trousers rolled.

But      this morning

coffee in bed,              my wife 

and I scrolling — 

Hers:               prison reform plus

longevity tips like walnuts

          avocado and turmeric breakfasts

—  Mine:        social justice plus

compression top binders

tanks and transmasc bottoms. 

I swim             wearing nothing

in private water, no one

sizing me up — not even

me. In public pools

I wear trunks and a top

or something Olympic

in nature,         cloaking at first

my afab frame,            before

soaking and revealing. 

My algorithm, knowing

who I am,        hawks me

daily to                        my gender core,

delivering this morning

the packer short modeled

on a body floating in a pool 

flaccid like what’s packed

in that packer: slight bulge

a wet hint of a body part 

you may not have. I don’t

desire a bulge where

a penis I don’t have

never grew.                 A cock

I no longer seek,         a dick 

I can barely recall ever 

wanting— even back when

I practiced       peeing through

Slurpee straws repurposed

from my brain freeze blue 

7-Eleven X-Treme Gulp…

There must have been

some blue slush stowaways

harbored inside those straws

turning my pee a happy green  

stream. I remember                             smiling 

then, as I smile now seeing

another version of myself

at fifteen          floating through

a sultry afternoon wearing

nothing but packer shorts,

sipping my big blue Slurpee.