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For
Mrs. E.T.C.
I
often think of you, flat-chested,
Dressed
in a worn brown short-sleeved sweater
And
Campbell plaid pleated skirt
In
winter or spring,
Or
in white-dotted purple chiffonB
All
long-flowing from the twenties, thirties;
Freckled,
loud-rouged without one brush of art;
Mouth
a tad wide
And
often squared for elocution,
Lips
unpainted, chapped with the work of talk,
Speech
meticulous and articulate even when you worked
As
you said we should at our English, Latin, FrenchB
Like
killing snakes.
My
lady, you own every grace.
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In
Admiration of a Lady Tom
I
know a feisty feline five-feet-one, breasts
soft
as rock when she grinds her ax, hard as silk
when
her hair is down—a Lady who socks it to the Gentlemen
who
roam in registered herds pure as Mom,
who
try to keep their birds and bottles hid—unknown.
They
golf and joke, they sip and smoke, they shower together
for
hours. Togaed in towels, lobotomized in mass,
these
Romans sit in soggy heat, slap backs and butts,
brag
of quotas surpassed, grouse about reports
and
votes, predict the Dow, chat about Reds
and
‘Cats. They wear the hats, they get the fat, but now
and
then these fat cats understand they’ve one tough kitty
squeezing
their scrota. No androgen, no drag—just grit,
guts,
and claws. They then over great grimace grin
and
wink outside the herd as if it’s understood
around
she’s simply a dizzy pain, this feline gripping
their
groins.
But
I know better than that. They can’t shake her off
with
a bellowed bass “Scat!” The Lady’s got
balls!
And
makes these chummy Roman ruminants sweat.
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