Due respect to the Weather

Girls, but raining men

would be the worst possible

forecast. I’m not saying I don’t

eat peaches with aplomb,

I’m just saying I’m sick

of alt-right supermajorities.

In response to my coming out

email, Egg told me everyone’s

a little bit gay. Truth is I’m more

than a little misandrist. I never find what I need

in anyone’s kitchen and forgot my own

flatware on the camping trip

orchestrated by dykes frustrated

I’d never filled out the spreadsheet.

The last man I loved? An almost-Buttigieg

voter! I’m sorry. At least gay sex is better

in practice than on TV: real

mucusy and over the covers.

At least the internet got men to fill out

all these five-inch inseams.

And didn’t me and my GF/DF BFs pile

into the same thrift store dressing

room, shimmying into see-through

sequin tops, a stitched-on honey

bee pollinating her flowers?

And wasn’t I needlessly hard

on my ex, an abortion provider

partial to Maggie Rogers?

And aren’t I love you and I’m sorry

so much the same? You can’t expect

anything in return. Only the rain

pelting sideways.