The women still after me, “I need to talk
to you, I’m so confused,” she’s over the hill,
her voice more baritone than soprano these
days, but the multi-colored gum-ball colored
clothes are gone, the short hair, now it’s black
from toes to neck, topped with a cumulous drifting
of the lightest possible blonde, coffee at bookstore
cafes, as Spring springs preferably under umbrellas
outside, facing forests, my wife indifferent since I got
castrated, “Why worry, you can’t play ball without
balls, even if you still have a bat.”