White blood cells die in a viral massacre.
I act as referee and check my sed rate.
An old man plays the piano, another me:
someone smelled but not seen.
“How long have you been like this?” I ask,
ever the concerned professional.
“Since I was an old woman,” I reply.
GREETINGS! THRILL SEEKERS!
HAVE WE GOT A SURPRISE FOR YOU!
SEND PERSONAL BITS NOW AND DON’T
FORGET YOUR ZIP CODE!
I fire off an email and do a dozen sit-ups.
I am a god and know I am.
Every hair on my leg is cosmic, just as Walt Whitman says it is.
“I’ve never had sex with a feminist,” says Whitman, “Who’s the
top and who’s the bottom?”
“Let’s do it sideways,” I reply. “That way we’re equal.”
Image and poem (c) Rob Goldstein 2015-January 2017