A Woman of Parts
We are Jane’s genes who have somehow been conned.
We specified brown hair, but Jane is a blonde.
I am Jane’s uvula. I’m not taboo.
(Bet you’re surprised to learn Joe has one too.)
I am Jane’s navel—an “outie.” By dint
Of such extroversion I gather no lint.
I am Jane’s bladder. Can I make Joe glower!
On car trips I have to be emptied each hour.
We are Jane’s nerves. Yes, we come and we go.
We’re fit as a fiddle or tight as its bow.
I’m Jane’s broken pelvis, repaired with a screw.
(If it weren’t for Medicare, she’d be broke too.)
Bob McKenty thinks he is not a poet, but an editorial cartoonist who can’t draw, or a stand-up comic with a clean vocabulary and a ten-o’clock bedtime. (His “A Man of Parts” can be found here.)