Who Said Chauvinism is Dead?
He, wearing necktie stained with
Spots of yellow-brown
Years ago spilled down receding chin;
He, with dandruff-showered shoulders
Never once brushed clean;
He, whose breath of rotted coffee-cream is
Nauseating as corpses in the sun;
He, who likes to leave, on Friday evenings and holidays,
Everyone with tasks that just can’t wait.
He, upon my return from maternity leave,
That I must choose between who it is I’m going be:
How effectively he knocked me down!
I admit, I fell that day.
Still, I stayed.
Like a heavy-weight champion, I got up off the ground,
And did not let him take me out
Or limit me
So flippantly, assuming I am one-dimensional like he.
As if the tasks I do at work
Somehow are commensurate
With the labor of sustaining human life.
As if, after bearing a new soul,
I couldn’t perform a laundry list of miracles
Including washing out that stain
And dusting off those flakes
From his slight, unsightly shoulders which,
Though he’s the man, and older than I am,
Have never borne the heavy load I carry
Now all the while I work, I smile,
A pacifist in his fight;
I offer him a mint
As mine melts, sweet and thin,
Upon the tongue I bite.
CARRIE DANAHER HOYT is a life-long lover and writer of poetry. It is her humble opinion that poetry is the highest form of human communication. Poems (she says) at once highlight what is unique and what is universal in humanity; the bond between writer and reader is intimate and sincere (kind of like Facebook, only better).
Carrie lives in Massachusetts where she is a wife and mother of three school-aged kids. To pay the bills (as her poems don’t yet do this) she works as an estate planning attorney. Beside family and poetry, she loves travel, volunteer work and concerts.
-TWITTERIZATION NATION: 8-8-2017