Sitting at my desk staring off into spices
arranged on a rack nearby: cardamom,
cumin, dark shambles, estrogen.
Peppercorn. Like I don’t even know
what sage is, and you do? It’s sexist,
and I’m tired of it, and so
is everybody else. We’re weary
of being categorized according to arbitrary
criteria like what kind of car we drive.
Standing up, taking it all in with a yawn.
Who has time to canoodle
with an imaginary bank dick
that looks like a cross between Kevin
Spacey and Bert Blyleven? Not eye
will see nor ear will hear,
the famous scripture reads, when He
returns, rendering all this fruitless—
this gesture and these bootless cries.
• • •