That mucky stuff in the head

It’s true about men; all that mucky stuff in the head.
Take me, for example, I’ll own up: I wish I could be
that cotton, slept-on sheet on your bed.

Or the three-inch stick you twist to paint your lips,
a button that closes your blouse, or if that’s too much, too personal,
just one of those things women use, those blue plastic things with cotton tips.

I wish I could be a flower, half-hidden in your hair,
a small silver ring in your ear, or, this would be good,
a red velvet cushion on your favorite chair.

I could be your string of pearls; oh, I’m not proud; I know they’re fake.
Or the shoe on your foot, or failing those,
the old painting you see when you wake.

Or the delicate lace on your clean white hankies,
the easy zip on your tight blue jeans, the tougher clip on your bra
and the ribbons that tie your pretty panties.

And if I could not be any of these,
could I be, please, the mirror on your wall,
and gaze at all, yes all, it sees.

There, I’ve said it. See what I mean about the stuff in our heads?
Sorry to be so straight and intimate, but it’s all about
curving, scented, secret flesh; all about a life repressed.

D. C. Kohn