WHAT I’D DO WITH MINE

Breasts are for public feeding,

lose your dirty mind.

So says La Leche League and town law agrees.

Well, I say the penis too is not always for sex.

My penis came in a box.

It was plastic like a president.

I wore it like a secret on national television.

This is not true yet.

So far my penis, like a 1975 Barbie Townhouse on eBay,

only furnishes my dreams.

Somewhere my future penis is riding up and down the elevator

of the cardboard house my mother threw away

because it was unfeminist and too big for the hallway.

It is peeping out the little heart-shaped window.

And it is exactly 11 1/2 inches tall in high heels.

I promise that my penis will fit into our daily existence.

It will not ring the doorbell of your vanilla manpussy.

I wear loose pants anyway.

My penis will not show up at family weddings.

The bride can keep the spotlight on her baby bump,

the little penis growing inside her.

But when my penis arrives, in its shiny pink wrapper,

happier than a tea party in a Christmas catalog,

I might walk down our street scratching an itch I don’t have.

Used to be, I had to go shopping for that.

I might pull it out like knitting during the sermon.

I’ll make me less threatening to the Reverend Mother,

who can sing her welcome solo

uninterrupted by other trebles.

I might use my penis as a mouthpiece

for all my novel characters.

How do children feel? Why do women lie?

It’s like a thumb drive with Wikipedia on it.

Men and women agree,

my penis is a likeable protagonist.

(continues)