This whole goddam business
of what you call intimacy
bugs the hell out of me.
I wish I can understand
plainly what women mean
when they talk about it.
Lizzy complains that I don’t talk,
it isn’t talking she wants nor roger
‘cos ours is so good; she ain’t
too quiet during home-run,
but it’s some other damn thing
that comes n’ goes like clouds in a windy sky.
Feelings. Yes, she keeps asking for;
what am I supposed to do?
If I don’t have any to give her
I don’t know what the hell it is.
Tell me, will you? Maybe, we can
get some peace around here.
This art of understanding a woman –
you learn, unlearn n’ learn again.
It smacks of interpreting the unsaid –
knowing how all fit together, yet fall apart,
I wish, yes, I wish they’re open books
I wouldn’t have to read between the lines.