It’s still a funny world of mostly men
among men in front of women, old
bulls with half-bowed necks, that
awkward uncertainty searching for
a postured cure, a familiar stance –
we give them space, let little voices
from unruly classrooms fade as if
not listening, as if nothing was said,
hoping an echo rings in their heads.
Pawed dirt with bellow and bluster,
some wear bald spots on thick skulls,
spar for hours in a pasture of cows –
yet the unemployed, when sequestered
together, can harmonize their grumbling
from the comfort of distant shade trees.
drycrikjournal 