The silence deafens
and suprises me;
the lack of women’s letters
I’d hoped to see.

Perhaps SuperBusyWomen
don’t, after all, have the time
to leave their hurried, rushed lives
and listen to my rhyme.

Perhaps she who I put on the shelf
was right!
But still, my keyboard and I forge
into the empty night.

Where I discover poetry is writ not for she,
nor them, nor thee, but — alone — for me.