Monday, February 28, 2011
I think I would make a good man.
If I were a man I’d shave every morning,
and get a shower too. I’d wear Old Spice and
always smell good in a blue collared shirt
I’d wear my pants with a smart leather belt.
My socks would pull clean to my calf and I’d wear size
10 1/2 shoes that always fit.
I’d drink coffee and eat oatmeal with wheat germ.
I’d ride my car to work, an old beat up one.
I’d fill up the car with gas, staring at the other customers
under my thick heavy eyebrows.
I’d frown at the cashier and say “pump number five”
in a deep gruff voice.
I’d work all day and when I took pit breaks I’d never
have to wait for the bathroom. I’d never have PMS, MS,
or post MS.
People would do what I say if the buck stopped
at my metal desk.
I’d walk to lunch, and eat something out of a bag.
I’d go home to a hot dinner on the table.
I’d say grace. My napkin would always be clean.
I’d tickle the kids, then watch television
and drink a light beer. My pajamas would
be where I left them, my bed would be made.
While my car is modeled on my figure,
with a big trunk for strollers,
While my tiny eyebrows make every statement
into a question? And my tiny voice is too high
to register. While no day begins or ends
the same as another. I am a mother.
I can at least promise I will speak softly
and carry a big purse.
Labels: mother poetry