The Men In My Home

The men? They come…and – yep – they go.
But at my little cottage they never show
till I see their whites of their flip-flop eyes
so’s I know which fellas are telling lies
or shooting straight and talking tall…
else they don’t see the ‘sides of my home, at all.
And mostly, for all of their words and dreams –
for the bluster and brag and promise of screams
way deep in the night and through the next day –
they’re just guys who want what other guys say
and boast about at the water cooler….
“Yeah…it was fine, and I really fooled her…”
But a woman’s worth ain’t a pot of beans
if the man she’s with drops out of his jeans
on the floor by the bed of another broad
who ate his baloney and thinks he’s God.
Real – really real – is the man I seek.
He’s intelligent, funny, can repair the leak
in my motor oil or my bathroom sink,
and doesn’t stutter when it’s time to think,
and he devours my homemade pie – in fact,
with élan, with finesse, with the crust in tact.