Men sit in the other room.
I am not a part of this conversation.
They talk about drinking and sports.
They talk about hunting.
They talk about war.
I am left out of this conversation.
They talk about cars.
They talk about the time they got drunk
and crashed a car
or crashed a war.
I am stood up for this conversation.
They talk about politics in a way that no one else does.
They talk about guns. They talk about justice.
They are the heroes of every story.
They expect everyone to be in the know, even though
I am bye Felicia’ed when it comes to these topics.
They talk about fathers, the wholeness of better men,
the bygone eras.
They talk about women, but only piecemeal.
What women have done to them.
What women do for them.
What women ought to do for them.
What women ought to do.
They talk about the hot, unattainable girls,
the crazy girls, the babymamas.
They talk about the strip joints and the red lights,
where they’ve been both patrons and bouncers.
They’re shocked – shocked -- that
the eighteen-year-old exotic dancer
is only interested in them for the tips.
Mostly, they talk about what women look like,
mounted on canvas or pedestals or on screens,
smiling or cooking or just jogging by.
All of these activities are obviously for them.
Finally, I barge into that room and I speak.
I say, this is what a woman’s life is.
I say, these are her experiences.
I say, these are her thoughts.
I do not raise my voice.
I make no demands.
Still, they look at me blankly.
One of them offers to buy me a beer.
I am not a part of this conversation.
They talk about drinking and sports.
They talk about hunting.
They talk about war.
I am left out of this conversation.
They talk about cars.
They talk about the time they got drunk
and crashed a car
or crashed a war.
I am stood up for this conversation.
They talk about politics in a way that no one else does.
They talk about guns. They talk about justice.
They are the heroes of every story.
They expect everyone to be in the know, even though
I am bye Felicia’ed when it comes to these topics.
They talk about fathers, the wholeness of better men,
the bygone eras.
They talk about women, but only piecemeal.
What women have done to them.
What women do for them.
What women ought to do for them.
What women ought to do.
They talk about the hot, unattainable girls,
the crazy girls, the babymamas.
They talk about the strip joints and the red lights,
where they’ve been both patrons and bouncers.
They’re shocked – shocked -- that
the eighteen-year-old exotic dancer
is only interested in them for the tips.
Mostly, they talk about what women look like,
mounted on canvas or pedestals or on screens,
smiling or cooking or just jogging by.
All of these activities are obviously for them.
Finally, I barge into that room and I speak.
I say, this is what a woman’s life is.
I say, these are her experiences.
I say, these are her thoughts.
I do not raise my voice.
I make no demands.
Still, they look at me blankly.
One of them offers to buy me a beer.
Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com
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