What she carries on her chest
is more than you can handle.
That unselfconscious confidence,
Doc Martens stride. These other guys
don’t get that she’s a threat.
And, so, you improvise.
You build a funhouse mirror wall with all
your “harmless” little jokes and anecdotes,
to capture her reflection.
You point to this distorted whore
with rolling eyes, indulgent guffaw,
labelling it “woman”.
And as your cronies laugh along
(sure, where’s the harm?),
you hope that, please, no-one will hear
behind your leer the sorry fear
of what she carries on her chest.