A kind of funny one.

His skin is wax:
he’s never seen the light of day
he’s never had the dawning
of adulthood or felt the friction
that would mar his figure—
or perhaps help him find his shape.

He doesn’t speak, he isn’t real
but he can blush and react
in quiet ways, with quiet sounds
that never quite form words—
that never find their shape,
and might forever float through life.

Who is he?
Why does he inch closer
and answer questions in private
and try to make things intimate
when he’s just a doughy child
sticking to the rolling pin?

His age makes him a man
but he is perpetually young,
his discomfort at every word
deforming his expression
which is innocent, and blank
and pathetically uncomprehending.

Love isn’t baking cupcakes
or going to amusement parks,
or any other schoolboy notions
that motivate his awkward arms
which seek unwanted embraces
and steal the comfort that he lacks.

I guess what I’m trying to say—
if I could impart to a wax sculpture
one brief word before he breathes,
stirs, gingerly takes that first step
and learns to walk— is simply:
Wake up and smell the sex.