A man I know
calls his preferred
prospective partners
“chicklettes.”
Because they’re young,
young and sweet,
he says.
Because of their fragile shells,
he says.
Because he spits them out
when the flavor’s gone,
he says.

This other man I know
has jokes up the wazoo
about women, about
“how they are.”
Because that’s just
letting off steam,
he says.
Because of the need for a break
in the battle between us,
he says.
Because it’s better than shooting them,
he says —

and laughs.

This other man I know
likes to stick his elbow into me
whenever he pretends he’s down
with what women say where we work.
Because they think I mean it,
he says.
Because as men we know the score,
he says.
Because, anyway, where were we before they talked?
he says.

Other men I know
lose track
of bedmate headcount.
Other men
keep track,
notch something soft
to brag about.
Other men I know
have heard about “no”
but they say it’s just a lock
to be picked apart.
Other men
don’t care much for locks,
bust down the door,
swear they heard a cry for help in there.

I know many other men
who I’d have sworn
are none of these,
but too often I learn
of one or more who are
not the other men
I thought they were
and now when I say

this other man I know
or
these other men I know

I stop and wonder
if men are in fact knowable,

why I seem to know so many
of these men,

why these other men
seem so comfortable with me.