DTJ or Broadcasts from Locker Room

Even the postman stopped
To scratch his head and say
He’d uh thought that
We’d uh fought a war.
I didn’t mean to disappoint
That dear old boy
As he handed me a postcard,
With a few lines,
“Wish I were somewhere
But here.”
I wanted to hand him back
A message about
Criticism, prosperity, and depth,
How these blueprints for battle plans
Makes me want to vomit on your boat shoes,
Like rancid canola oil going down.

You can kick us like your ex wife and
Beat in my teeth with your insecure hands.
Call the fire department to extinguish my bra,
Teach me how to take these blows like a man,
And I’ll teach you to blow better,
And take it like a lady.

Think of me,
Busted-up smile, untrustworthy face,
While you think back to
Your locker room afternoons,
Embarrassed about how quickly
Your ego would show,
How strikingly pathetic and tiny it was.

You use adjectives to tell us
What we can do to you in heels,
Every shrieking moment
More crass, less relevant
We know how to do these things in flats.

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