Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify
Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back
Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she
Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes
Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later
Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack
Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling
Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his
Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did
Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but
It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******
Casually caught his eyes, going
Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure
Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,
Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,
The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time
With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,
In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify
Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back
Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she
Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes
Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later
Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack
Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling
Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his
Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did
Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but
It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******
Casually caught his eyes, going
Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure
Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,
Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,
The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time
With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,
In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.
2010 POEM.
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