"Brother Fred"

And what about when

He stands before you, hand outstretched,

Reaching for you ? 

When you are close to his translucent fingertips, when you peer into that glass jar, just as he did years ago. 

He smiles. 

A smile that was never his. 

How confident I feel, adjusting my pants behind my satchel, puffing out my chest with no hint of worry. 

I will not bulge out and overspill with feminine curvature, fleshy and filled with fat. My stomach and hips betray his suited hint of slimness. 

My flatness achieved via pinching and squashing the womanly parts of me, my trousers protrude the indication of a sock. 

I do not know if he would smile at me. 

I care about him, in his faceless, masculine mask, in his "It is to be admitted" in his "Our museum". 

I hope he understands that he has helped me. 

I'm sure the jokes are far too much for him. 

I want him somehow, to watch out for me. 

More often, going to work feels like walking through a door. I am transformed. 

I am perceived in ways that distribute confidence faster than anything else.