I Like My Men

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w/ a hint of oedipal struggling.

Like ‘em tall, like ‘em mean, etc.

Strapping

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

pretending like

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.