He sniffs his fingers and eyes the waiter.
Our church has no bells.
They call it virtue signaling, this thirst for recognition.
What is this hunger? Starved for attention, craving
spiritual nookie but willing to settle for Sunday school
milk and cookies. Who are we?

Baby odors, perspiration-saturated bras…
Women clamber to breastfeed in public; men
seek surgery so their tits will lactate.
One smells diapers, never a good sign;
there’s baby powder on the jackboots. Fascists
tend to be sentimental; Hitler was maudlin.

Men hunger to wear girdles, have their hair done,
paint their nails. Their fingers smell of cum.
Drag queen nation, let it go; be done with it:
wax lips, Beatles wigs; the nostalgia is killing us.
Where’s John Wayne? My mother wants a man to kiss
her hand.

The men are lined up with the ladies waiting to powder
their noses. Will they talk about cocksucking between stalls?
When men use the little girls’ room, are they still ladies?
The self-pity is nauseating. Bring back the draft. Let the men
fuck on the battlefield. Nothing wrong with a little love.
Heavens to Betsy, boys will be boys, not girls.