My hands are dry and crusty
My thumb looks like my big toe
What kind of woman am I?
One of luxury and perfume
Sometimes and more often
My companions define me
The dusty guitar bag
And green army rucksack
Rope in my hair
Holes in my tights
(Free on the insides)
You were offended
Of my mildly feminist poem?
Well I’d like to tell you also
That today I threw away
The record selling girl bible
Of this modern age
That speaks of how women
Can love and live and not shave
And pull up their own straps
To find a room for themselves
I found it predictable
And anyway
I prefer to play that game
Of being male and female
Ignorant of any aesthetics
In my own way.