For men and boys who are
programmed like me, same attraction,
an off magnet, rubber guy, rubber toy,
rubber heart, I’m the sack that carries onions.
The male Cinderella,
the dust on my sister’s shoe, an allergic
reaction from the other; she says ah-choo,
my baby brother’s gun and troubled look.
My cousin’s envy, my cousin’s hate,
my cousin’s disapproval, a nasty sour
berry and pinched nose, I suppose
I’m the package sent back to childhood.
From the mail man to the mailbox,
fed up, X-ed out, I guess I’m an empty box
wrapped in beautiful designs with a packing
label ripped off and thrown away.
Not good enough for his lover, a broken pinion,
an opinion, a simple-minded simian, a flat note
from the trumpet of Gideon, I’m never really
heard and my voice is beneath.
A glass jar, a frozen lake, my words
come out and are muted by the vacuum
cleaner of trivial commotion, a roaring monster
who devours every little sentence.