Michael Coy Poet Quatrain

Turning Point

(1)

“Darling, don’t you even listen,”
said the mother to Christine:
construction workers, jeering, hissing,
whistling, hooting things obscene,

put them through a via crucis
on their way to buy some jeans.
(That they had to take abuse is
not correct, by any means.)

“Just ignore it. I’m a woman,
you are only just fifteen.”
Mother fielded all the come-ons,
as she oh-so-slightly preened.

“Well, I’m jolly glad that’s finished!”
Safely out of workers’ view,
Mom gripped Christine’s arm, diminished ...
“They were whistling at YOU!

(2)

My glasses have a fetching tint.
I say my name is ‘Otis’:
I’ve trained myself to walk like Clint,
but still the girls don’t notice.

I’ve paid the best who shape and train,
that money can afford:
the meanest-seen is my John Wayne,
that’s ever been ignored.

My lead-off choice, James Stewart’s voice,
when ordering a table:
I ask for rolls (I can’t do Royce)
and grimace like Clark Gable.

I think I know why things are slow
with reference to chicks:
I’m choosing stars that they don’t know
(and women don’t like tricks).

I shouldn’t base my public face
on movie stars long dead:
a younger stud I should embrace
(or be myself, instead!)

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