AFTER READING A NOVEL WHERE THE WOMEN FANTASIZE
ABOUT A HUNK ON TV
So I ask myself, Why is it that women don’t fantasize
(as if they ever did) but, well, hope springs eternal,
though the bedsprings don’t anymore, and I suppose
not look any further than the purpuras, like flags
on my upper arms, or my huge bald spot flanked
the color of catacombs, or the loss of height leaving
without a neck, or, whoa, that’s enough to deter
woman of whatever age from giving me a second
if, after a brief glance, she was kind enough to give
a first look.
And so I say, What about me as a person on the inside?
I suspect the answer might very well be, Well what