Get Me a Rewrite
I want to be a grandmother —
strange ambition for a man
(granted I’ve never liked sports
and I’ve always been a bit prim) —
a matriarch keeping house,
cooking hearty stews and brewing
just the right tea for your affliction,
passing on the stories that tell us.
A grandmother is such a useful thing!
What infirmities she has are decorative,
and bravely born.
Not like an old man:
with his weedy eyebrows, his crotchets,
his leaky memory and penis, he’s a tiresome
creature, to be humored and cared for,
one whom no one looks to for anything
except a duty to fulfill.
I don’t know whether this poem is good or bad, but I like it. That doesn’t help me decide: I like some pretty awful stuff. Those dayglo-orange marshmallow “circus peanuts,” for example.