“Legs”
I’m a man, aren’t I? But that‘s not exactly the questioned called out.
--But call me out, they do; and draw me out, they do;
Out like a snake from its hole. Am I more beast than man?
How old need I be to see--too old? How honest? How moral?
What do I want but to stare and admire? Nothing! Yet--
Respect and I are not speaking; what have I done wrong?
There is nothing more beautiful than a woman.
But objects are beautiful. Sunsets beg adoration,
Not legs that lead up, up-- Women, endowed, receive attention.
I’m like a kid in a candy store, with diabetes.
I’ll have two servings, please. Or better yet, three.
I might as well starve!
I can remember what is best for me:
Two which climb to a companion heart, resting below a supple mind;
A being like me--sometimes beastly, sometimes kind.
So, I cannot forget:
I, so abusive as to objectify, become the object which is abused,
And die, limbless and alone, having left my humanity inside its little hole.
