She’s wearing Tevas over cotton socks
beneath a shapeless skirt and peasant blouse.
As if a barrel chose to wear a box,
an aging Berkeley matron leaves her house
to walk her pets, with passive mate in tow,
apparently agreeable and fine
with what she has, I guess, but I don’t know.
And I’m no wiser than a whim of mine.

Resenting the assumptions made of me
from gender, gene pool, tenor of my voice,
the way I walk or clothe myself or earn
the cost of living here, how can I be,
respecting her, assuming? I’ve a choice:
unkindly blindly blurt; or mutely learn.