A man after sex		
has that squishy thing in the nest of his lap.			 
A bashful appendage 
like a Claes Oldenburg vinyl drainpipe,
a soft saxophone that won't toot a note. 	         		 	

A man's got to wear his susceptibility
out in plain sight.					  
No wonder he's keeping his soul 		 
zippered up.		
					 
A woman's got that rock of a belly,		 
that baby cave, 					 
breasts swaggering erect 				 	 
when they swell with milk.			   
Oh she knows what it's like to sing 		 
the stand-up song of a man.			  	 	 

Now you and I soften in the wash,  	   	   		
the body-elastic goes slack.			 
We see ourselves in each other, 
we grow alike. 
We want to curl up in a sunny corner  				 
and doze like the cat. 				

Come, flick a whisker,  				 
make me remember.