Jeffrey McDaniel

Whatever happened to the heavy breather?
Technology—*69, caller ID, the internet—
has rendered his kink obsolete. Who
can he dial now? He is the 8-track of deviants.
He tried launching filthy messages in chat rooms,
but they just treated him like he was normal,
which was damn near a death blow.

Should we gather up the last few
still out there, breathing all heavy in the wild,
before they go extinct, and place them
in a special zoo, in cages, complete
with rotary phones, unplugged
of course, and non-descript apartment
furniture—crumpled-up sandwich
wrappers—to re-create the “natural habitat”?

Perhaps a plaque that reads: here
sits the heavy breather. He used to call
housewives in the afternoon, turn his breath
into a fog machine. He lived for that
first intake of air, the gasp that escaped
her mouth like a weather balloon
as his fog traveled through her.