Three men repainting the kitchen under my studynever weary of talking, that plaintive baritone
of sports commentary: who shouldhave been traded for whom, and who
isn't worth a dime of his salary. Oh,the monotony, not sublime, of the male—
the ceaseless thrust, the voiced aggression
toward a world of imagined malfeasance!
Couldn't the species manage without these clowns?With an ovary-activating device,
say, installed in beauty parlors?A trio of women would babble beneath me
like shivering leaves, like sighing wavelets;
I wouldn't understand a blessed word.