Can do anything a man can
except the can-can
the do-whop in high tops
on her way to the nail shop.
The swerve of her curves makes the statement, “she’s got the nerve,”
to put him down like lit herbs,
begging for another chance, another turn.
She speaks eloquently, baits the conversation with latch and hook
that was encoded in her book
long before she was born to adorn
a soliloquy laced tongue found on a horn.
What Ms. Man can’t do is wrap strong arms her wounded soul
she needs him, where others weren’t quite so bold.
He is her quiet place, no need to shout
where she can stop being a man, of that, no doubt.
She has walked the walk and talked the talk,
and in her eyes, he is her golden hallmark.
© privatethoughtsmadepublic. 2017.