Public musings of men on women make me
gnash my teeth and want to
spit my brains out at them.
Careless remarks boil my blood and
set fire to my wretched bones.
But while I stomp through their
soggy swamp of words, I try hard to
see through the trees:
somewhere my professor writes poems
about birds in the snow
while he muses
on James Joyce and Thomas Hardy.
Another, he handles a student’s broken
eyeglasses gently, fixing them so
she can see again.