I Like My Men
w/ a hint of oedipal struggling.
Like ‘em tall, like ‘em mean, etc.
in their moon shoes
because I carry too much,
because I am always spinning around
them — slicked back pompadours
dark w/ water from the bathroom faucet
for dancing hip-close w/ glitter tulle and kitten heels,
girls eating up the leather. A ponyboy, play
a mid-Atlantic accent.
Me? I’m just pigtails twirling
a parasol next to a flock
of pigeons pecking over a cigarette
on the boardwalk, paying them
no mind, humming Happy birthday mister
president to no one in particular.
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