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Rednecks and the Men Who Love Them 
Somehow, they'd always escaped
my attention, cruising inside their pink
Blazers, broomsticks mounted firmly
on the back windows, ready to fly
off the handle. Double-parked, listening
to Rush Limbaugh on FM, they're inspired
to spit in French—while the men
who love them are still inside
the mall, desperately searching
for the new underwear
that will save their marriage.
On the way home they stop
at some vegetarian dive
to swill and snicker
at Frank Gifford's wife, up there
on the big screen, looking as if
she were still a player.
They boo the Little Dutch Boy
during the commercials, telling him
to keep that finger
right where it belongs.
Meanwhile, the men who love them
sit outside, fingering their boxer shorts
through the plastic wrappers, looking
over their shoulders, waiting
in broad daylight for something,
anything, to rise.
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