Don’t think their shields are mirrors.
I love their fierce white teeth,
my women roar.
Face paint shatters on a belly laugh,
they plot with a potted glare
then march on down the stair without
wobble, wand or weave.
Cloaked in the black cloth of fire & desks;
won pride. Strange, strange partners
they adopt their wounds.
No wife, maid, no nun or mum is tamed;
their neck sometimes submits
while brain punches back.
We strutting sons stomp blithely on perilous parquet.
There’s more you say,
you’d be right. Hold them to your ear
then hear the gibber of the waves. Crazy as men,
contentment is suborned intent. They are everywhere,
like headlights randomly illuminate as they move
& sometimes choose to shine on you.