I’ll bet you read a lot of books
back when you bored your
self in old halls and
small town balls,
manned by dud Dads
muddy handed,
cheering on
your brothers chasing
a ball in the mud.

I bet those books
made looking pretty that
much more boring,
bet they called you a sook
when you first took
the initiative,
hissed unwillingness at
bourbon-breathed boys.

But lady, woman,
pair of soft fists
you’re in a big town now.

And while they learn to
beat panels and weld,
and meld and mould themselves
into the men your
mother married,
I’ll be reading all your books,
mulling over what it took.


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