as water streams
down my pale skin
      I find it; nestled 
like a ninja in the dark,
and as lather collects 
      around my feet,
I stand in the steam 
     beneath the nozzle,
my back covered 
       in goose pimples,
my fingers pinching
   at the small firm mass:
frozen, dumb, naked
      and oh so alone.
reading a leaflet entitled 
What Is An Orchidectomy?
(thinking it sounds like 
          pinching the head 
off a delicate flower)
           my eyes scan down
     the single shiny sheet
to a long list of risks,
and then to the short paragraph 
           beneath, headed
 Alternative Options.
the movement of the scalpel
          is swift and sure,
it’s more than four ounces
of tissue and tumour tumbling
into the cold hard emptiness,
     can you hear my pride 
clatter into the kidney dish?
     can you hear the sharp intake
of breath, when I slip 
          my boxer shorts off?
I don’t watch porn anymore,
it’s just too damn difficult,
         instead I read Wikipedia
articles about dead film noir 
actors, watch re-runs 
        of Top Gear on Dave,
& let my mind wander 
      over the trivial issues 
the world might toss my way,
    it’s easier somehow.