Some suit in jeans suggested a power skirt kit.
Another suggested doing something
about that kinky hair (and
maybe the nose or some makeup
maybe too old
too young
too technical
not technical enough).
And, when they didn't say it to each other,
they looked for the right words.
They could not put their right finger on it.
They looked for the right answer.
They could not put that right foot in their mouths.
Maybe what they wanted to say was
jew! jew! jew!
or
she's only a girl!
They were too pure-minding minded to say it
in consciousness—outside their skin
and away from a urinal.
They knew it was wrong, but there it was like the
subtle seams of an a-line dress
cut on the bias,
hemmed in,
plain and simple.
And it could not be (could not!) that she was the
right person in the right place at the right
time...
And when she quit (couldn't stand the hate, duh, heat),
they comfortably fingered their crosses
and hired three men to
fill her satin pumps.