In a message dated 10/19/2003 11:36:47 AM Central Daylight Time,
[log in to unmask] writes:

<< Not Her Type

 Overgrown school boys, their bottoms plumping
 pin-stripe, their side partings unconvincing.
 She's met a few at Balls brothers (which it seems
 is not like Yates' Wine Lodge after all).

 They speak in 'we's and of collateral
 and names, they order wine without checking
 the list, then fill her glass.  And she in tight jeans
 and cleavage and smoking too much.

 Rarely are they inclined to consider
 that capitalism is a dog biting its own arse,
 or that a nation at war holds its breath
 because it is trying to stop its soul escaping

  - they push on with their project. Sex, after all
 is not a metaphor. Nothing is piggy-backed
 on their desire for a woman so unlike their wives
 or sisters. She finds she cannot touch them.

 Their surfaces are like egg shell. As babies
 they had no fontanelles. Its a small thing
 she asks for. A man she can dig her thumb into
 and still be holding something solid.
 >>
I recognize the craft in this poem and admire it.  This is just my personal
response.  I didn't care for this hard-boiled slickly sophisticated smart-ass
woman.  As I said, it is my personal response.  I don't think I fit into the
world today, so I am not to be trusted in this regard.  Sue