Entering the Men’s Room

If I was starting out now 
I would not wait for permission
To join the human race 
On an equal footing
Nor look for that elusive invitation
Asking me to take my rightful place
At the table where everyone can eat their fill
I would enter the men’s room 
Through the glass ceiling
Abseiling from above
In an aerial display of breath-taking beauty
Wearing my favourite high-heeled shoes and
Dressed to kill with compassion
I would not mind my manners
Or pick at my food with ladylike grace
I would upset the apple-cart
With my bruised fruitfulness
I would speak out of turn
Precisely because I have a voice
I would laugh and make jokes
At men’s foibles and folly
Chastise them like children
For their war-mongering chants
I would make them clear the table
Of their devastating debris
Wash their dirty dishes
And hang out their own laundry
For all the world to see
That underneath the suits and boots
They wear soiled underwear
And socks with holes
I would teach them to mend and darn
To knit comfort blankets
And sew seams of solidarity
To learn embroidery
And other gentle arts
So that they might set the table
For us, with a cloth of flowers
And wait as patiently as we have waited
“Orders please?”

Julie Ward