Their timbre irritates my ears, as high
as if they sucked on helium for air.
They poultry-hop their happiness to spy
each other in a crowd. Too quick they share
their girlish hopes, romantic fancies, dirt,
collapsing into silliness so soon,
it isn’t incorrect to murmur “flirt”
or unrealistic to expect a swoon.

Esteeming each, the sum is what I hate,
whose voices seek that unremitting pitch,
who judge and peck at differences. I’m struck
by their unfairness while I suffocate
in fluff. And I can’t even call them bitch
when chicken comes to mind with every cluck.