Palmful of phallus

Crispin Ennvict
hardly had a chance
with such God-given wrists,
limp and sloppy
and homoerotic,
and the disposition
of a foggy mirror. The man
who shook his hand
could be forgiven
a blush or flustered cough.
He'd put his twiggy fingers
tight together, his skin
always soft and warm
like he had a mini-spa
in his pocket. You'd reach
for a manly grip
and instead grab a palmful
of phallus. Not exactly,
but you get the point.
No one gets ahead that way,
except maybe in the fashion world
or dark tennis locker rooms,
rarely in business where
a man's strength and potential
is judged in those seconds
when he's touching another,
and today all I know
is where Crispin isn't.
I'll never forget his handshake,
his dead eyes blurred
from generations of Sicilian inbreeding,
how his dried-out lips curled
at my reaction, how my bones
could startle at something so soft.