To Be At Ease About The Catch

There is the endless string of
men who put you down
so just what
do you think you are doing?
with a final flick of an ash
from a cigar
I want to say I'm proud that
they bit the dust and that
I come from a long line of those
reared on Catechisum
in a church basement
who pass with flying colors
on up to the kiss on the hand
of a pious bishop, my
donning a pillbox hat for
Jesus.

I am aging and proud.

My mother in her kitchen is
singing softly to the radio.
My Sweet Embraceable You.
Who read War and Peace at an
early age,
who married in a whirlwind,
his hand like a claw
fixing the ring to her finger.


I don't know any men who read
In The Rye
riding
to the city with limbs
for briefcases anymore.