She doesn’t bother with the artful use
of psycho-casuistry. (She’ll stroke her cat;
a man can stroke himself—you’re proof of that.)
She says each action is its own excuse,
and shrugs, or squares her shoulders, almost sneers.
She only likes her lying warm and wordless:
two bodies on a bed. She softens then
and draws the strength out of her naked men,
creates some pattern, orders the absurd mess
of all their long-filed hopes and rankest fears.
She only offers that which men return;
not truth, not comfort, just a little time
and motion. Like or lump it, but you’ll learn:
it’s never you for whom the front door chimes.