Instead of swinging
his coarse blue-collar fists at me
in antipathy
and tossing my creased Lee jeans
and red Pro-Keds into the
ragged alley behind our
fertile home; on Saturdays
he drove me passed the
pugilistic football fields in
his masculine Cadillac
car, to the tittering
ballet studio where I
learned to tuck my dick
and point my toes, and
sat amongst the proud parents
of girl-children
watching me signify and finger snap.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
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