Mrs. Man
She’s like the weather, he laughs,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe she, like the sky and the sea,
has to accept what he does, this Man
who dresses her up in jeweled cities
and keeps her warm during winter
with carbon blankets and methane booze.
She’s like the weather, he quips,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe she’s not consulted
about his plans for her, his expectation
that she’ll be fruitful and multiply.
Lord knows, he provides her with enough
genetically-modified fertilizer.
She’s like the weather, he rags,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe this Man puts himself first,
like the time he spent the week-end
playing nuclear roulette with his buddies,
leaving the whole carcinogenic mess
for her and the grandkids to clean up.
She’s like the weather, he repeats,
moody and unpredictable;
but maybe her barometric pressure’s just up,
what with his unreasonable insistence
that she be nice to his clients
who get high on fracked gas
and vomit crude in the domestic pool.
She’s like the weather, they’re now saying,
moody and unpredictable;
so maybe she should ask herself
if he’s really worth all that soot,
draped like a pall on her dawn.
But she, with nowhere to go,
must hold on to this Man, her hope.
18 May 2013

This work is licensed by Bonnie Mosse Funk under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
























