Scene at Dog Beach


After our beach walk I see them 
pull up in a faded green Corvair.
It doesn’t take me long to size him up. 

You leash the dog, he loiters,
a big guy with thick wavy dark hair 
and a paunch. A cigarette dangles 

off his lower lip.  The two of you
have come to take the dog for a romp. 
He barks orders; you snap back. 
 
Your locks droop like hound's ears 
on your shoulders.   An India print skirt 
wraps around your narrow hips.  

It’s true, you’re no beauty. 
You married him so you could walk
down the aisle, like your friends.

I've seen some women 
give it all away for a man--
type his papers, bake him pies, 

make do with boxed perms
to save a few dimes only to get left 
like a penny on the railroad tracks.

I say, dump him.  
Let him keep the dog.  
Dogs and guys—they get along. 

He’ll find someone else, probably
already has, some bleached blonde willing 
to put up with his cheap couch, 

smoldering butts, grimy 
foam-ringed glasses, the TV 
blinking all night like a neon sign

at an all-night diner. Oh, he might 
protest, when you leave, might 
even start to get rough...

On second thought, 
you take the dog.





Lipstick


A bombshell it's not though 
it is part of the needed arsenal,
a shiny black chamber trimmed
in gold.  On the road, the stoplight
turns red.  As she reaches for it, 
a tiny missile fires, crimson rises, 
worn on one side from so many 
intimate encounters with her mouth
defining peaks, rounding curves,
reflected now, a dew-fresh hue
like a genie unleashed with power 
to confer a heightened allure, 
attraction that turns heads, magically 
changing red stop lights to green--
to green, oh no! The top is replaced 
in haste.  A tiny accident takes place.  
Mashed, the missile makes a halting, 
bruised retreat, its power compromised, 
future transformations crushed.





Message to Shoes


We're not going for your flip-flopping,
your tongue-flapping, your spiky 

man-made psychopathic  
pointy-toed pain.

Fashion means little to us now.
Get our toes out of jail.  

Animals have died for us.
It's justice we're after. 

You've had miles of chances.  
Pinch us and you're dismissed. 

Rub us wrong, you fly 
to the top of discard mountain.

But don't be put off by our calloused 
exterior.  Support our aching arches.
Cradle our soles.





Where's Ken


Languid, they show off 
their hard pointy breasts ,
bendable knees extended 
as they model her latest
hand-sewn outfits, lounging 
in their mansion crafted  
from her old wooden blocks 
stacked across the Turkish rug.

My daughter dresses them up 
to play girl, she explains, but 
if their golden hair becomes 
too tangled, she'll cut it off, 
dress them in sweats, alter 
the conversations.  Once 
she buried one, dug it up--
Zombie Barbie.

Today, for the first time, 
she announces that she wants 
a Ken doll, to be what, I wonder,
a husband, brother, friend, 
a stranger lurking on a corner 
making offers?  "After all,"
she says, "a girl can dress up
just so long for other girls."  

Will she sew him manly 
outfits or cross dress him 
to spark creative new dialogs? 
"No," she sighs, "I want him 
because I'm just tired, every 
day, of making up excuses 
for where he is." 






Tough Bitch


See how my stance shifts 
just so, how my hipbone juts? 
See how my wrist poses, languid, 
how my arm angles out?
 
Observe how my fingers form 
two sharp spikes.  Between them, 
I summon arson, my lips entrap, 
my cheeks hollow. 

Watch how I savor acrid tars, 
let them smolder, how I toss back 
my head then release, blow 
a hard little stream.
 
“Get them before they get you,” 
my motto, voiced in a rasp
my dark hair like a shroud 
over one eye. I watch, alert 
for that spot most tender.  

When I find it, I strike 
like cold lightening.  
Watch out!  My crimson 
nails leave marks.  

I want to be a tough bitch. 
That’s right.  Watch me do it.