a poem to other men at the gym

this is a love poem of sorts.
i explore muscle like
topography & i watch other men
at the gym. not out of lust,
but out of desire to know 
what my body is supposed to look like.
the same man in a red tank top
works his chest each morning
like a great swan, pumping
& sighing Ah! i observe
him & he makes me love birds.
i want to be a swam like that
& i wait for him to be done
with the machine. another man 
paces the locker room barefoot
in a suite. i'm drawn to
all these men who go right from
the gym to work. i imagine they're
cold in their cars, damp from
the showers. i don't take
a shower because i don't
have the right anatomy for it.
in another life, i would, &
i'd marvel at their bodies
there too; steam strewn 
around their ankles. water
can make anyone seem like
a god. then there's the men 
who sit on the benches
& watch themselves
in the big open mirrors.
stone faced, they take
in their own features. do they
think of themselves as beautiful?
probably not, but i do.
these men don't move often,
pinch their muscles & 
they want more. i also want
more muscles, whatever that
means. i've worked
up to lifting 115 pounds,
but only because i get 
to watch the others, i don't
want to  be other men,
i want to be their arms
& their thighs & their calves;
their calves are my favorite.
& when i leave i get 
my sweater from the locker room
& i feel like the eyes
of all the men there are watching me
& my body.
i used to mind, but now
i love it. i hope they 
make maps of me at home,
drawing each hair like 
a thin river on the face
of a mountain. maybe they 
love me like i love them.