waiting to be called

something like thirty or forty guys
were crammed into that room,
all in nothing but speedos and robes,
waiting to be called.

"number thirty-eight!" a man yells,
and another dude walks behind the curtain,
leaving the rest of us to pick at the food,
left out on cheap tables like a kid's party.

some men are tweezing or shaving stray hairs,
styling their hair in the mirror and whatnot.
others just cross their arms and keep to themselves,
trying to keep it up using the stacks of pornos left out.

others apply a self tanner that inevitably
ends up creating an orange powdery substance
that, mixed with dorito cheese, coats the floor
we're all walking on, barefoot, waiting to be called.

"number eight and eleven!" the voice yells.
the guy next to me plops his copy of Jugs down,
looks at me, smiles, and says "guess i'm up"
before disappearing behind the curtain.