He sat listening to a
famous, female poet
being interviewed by

a popular, female in-
terviewer of spiritual
matters before a mostly

female crowd. They spoke
of the starvation of
people for the meaning

that can be found in
poetry and contemplation
and silence and they

were all so earnest and
the audience laughed
so modestly and clapped

so appropriately and
appreciatively about it
all and it reminded

him of how he felt
as one of the few men
employed at a hospice

where he was sure he
was drowning in estrogen.
The point of no return

for him came when the
conversation turned
to how dust is alive

and how one female poet
named all the dust bun-
nies in her house. He

wanted to write a poem
about testosterone and
standing and screaming

bloody murder and then
he thought about just
standing, beating his

chest like Tarzan and
screaming bloody murder
but he lives in a condo

association and his
neighbors are mostly,
single, poetry and me-

ditation loving females,
who being given toward
myth, metaphor and simile

would unceremoniously
dismiss the earnestness
of his very manly out-

burst by earnestly believ-
ing that he, the screamer,
being of Scandinavian

blood was simply echoing
Thor calling down thunder,
lightening and destruction

to which they might laugh
modestly and clap approp-
riately and appreciatively

so he just shut down the
computer, wrote a love
poem and did his daily

meditative prayer, deep
breathing and yoga.