Tony's Shirt

There is a small tear in his shirt,
right at the shoulder where the thread broke
or perhaps missed
and I itch to fix it.

That tear/rip/open seam fills me with lust
two inches of flesh exposed when he moves his arm
to sign another manuscript.
The arch of his neck reminds me of you
as I listen to his voice but never hear the words,
staring at the pulse at the base of that thin neck.

His glasses, hanging there, pull his shirt askew,
reveal one or two freckles and
I wonder if his wife kisses those freckles
as I kiss yours. I wonder.