The Bear King

A man approaches.
Looks like he has dirty arms.
Then I look closer and no.
Arms are inky-pictorial.
Some pictures there are dirty pictures, yes.
But arms themselves are clean arms.  
He spreads his arms out.  
Wants to give me a hug maybe?
Big arms with dirty pictures and he wants a hug.
Wants a hug or wants to give one and get one back.
Oh, big armed men with art full of sex on their arms!
I have known another like this.
He also wanted hugs and arms full of body.
Wanted to rub his dirty pictures on me or anyone really.
Man, man, man he was a dirty man even after a shower.
Man, man, man he had the grip of a roughneck.
Man, man, man he had the arms of a bear.
Man, man, man he had the appetites of a bear man.
Art on the skin, the teeth of Ursa Major, constellation man.
Can’t be out at night without thinking of him.
He led me to the North Star without my looking up.
I still recall he had a tattoo of the Bear King tearing flesh.
That was the old man I knew with arms and dirty art.
I don’t know this new man.
He might be lovely.
He might prefer Ursa Minor.
He might be less of a bear.
Might not even know the Bear King.
Might not even know I knew the Bear King.
He was walking toward me just now.
He turned into the arms of another, must be a lover.
He’s not the same, even with dirty pictured arms.
I knew there were other Bear Kings out here.
I knew I had only to wait to see one again.
This one might not be one for me to savor.
There will be another.
There will be another.
There will be another.