for him, they are the tools
of tacit oratory, the flying flags
above the battlements, flourishing spritely
in a favorable wind;
furthermore, they are
geminiacal, weapons meant
for dual wielding—
though, at this distance and any other they appear
quite unskilled.
(and I
because I am sex-deprived and unabashedly gutterminded
contemplate the burning queries such
an observation provokes: that is
how does he touch the women
whose wraparound figures must
—at least occasionally—
shape his sheets? Are they
aroused more by his foolish hands or by
his plasma screen tv?)

Yes, clumsy, they seem but oh—
they are indeed gorgeous, full figure animals
expertly crafted and shaped large enough
to swallow mine, were they not so tediously preoccupied with
facilitating his odiously alacrity, injected into the capillaries of his
momentary bloviation.

However, for all his peculiar self-assurance
(his quirky, offhanded groping of what makes a man)
his hands are, undeniably
nude.

Quite naked are they, parading about
with a limitless ignorance of their own vulnerability to my
austere judgment, proud as
twin emperors, removed of all refracted finery.

And perhaps this is why he seems
to possess only the scepter of masculinity
and not the balls.

it is a Woman that makes
a Man,

after all

. . . . nay . . .
not a leaf-laden hot-tub
or political humor