woman. They see the polish
and brass, not inside the glass. They see
a shiny orange, not the seeds or
the pith. Not the woman,

just a myth. The men have
a crush on red lipstick and cream
blush. They can't do better
than a fuzzy low-cut sweater. It's sweet

to kiss cherry-painted toes than to rub
the soles of a woman with flab and
rolls. A woman that's walked for miles
carrying her load in smiles. A woman

that's danced in the rain squeezing in
her pain tightly like a corset. No man
can endorse it.