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Avoiding eye contact in the communal showers,
 or perhaps not.

 Never does my masculinity present itself more,
 than sat dripping naked on the blue bench,
 with wet white tile as my backdrop,
 modesty and intimacy coalescing.

 Too many times have I spoken with a boy,
 sorry, a man, on some app,
 about steamy locker room intimacy,
 about accidental hard-ons and carnal encounters,
 these so called realities.

 Yet, I sit, I drip and I gaze inward,
 never having experienced such a thing,
 my internal monologue whirs about my
 awareness of not looking.

 We are private, we are allowed nudity,
 a modern man is a naked one,
 a modern man is a naked one who doesn't look.

 Intimate, really, the few words that are muttered,
 ‘oops, sorry, thank you’
 tell me you are here, that you are real.
 So aware of my own limbs,
 of my considered movements,
 looking without looking, knowing without knowing.

 As familiarity surrounds, we are blurrily here,
 softly present with each other,
 anonymous, yet ironically identified,
 deeply present in our own thoughts.
 What do you monologue about while you publicly undress?

 Perhaps it’s the pantry items that need restocking
 maybe the plan for the rest of the day,
 you may, like me
 just relish in the presence of the rugby player,
 who’s just taken off his shorts.