The elevator opened
On a hallway bound for lingerie…
A corridor of plush divans
And easy chairs
And Persian carpets under foot…
And smirky looks at men who dare
To browse for gifts of underthings.
Once arrived, well-scrutinized,
I scanned the room for other men,
But seeing none
I blanched and thought,
Perhaps, I’m where I don’t belong…
Like in a ladies’ locker room.
Oh, God, must be and, mortified,
I fled back down the corridor,
Sneered at by a self-appointed
Mistress of this all-girls club,
Who, glaring over glasses, asked me,
Aren’t you in the wrong place, bub?
And flustered, I,
Tongue-tied,
Slunk off
Towards crowds of anonymity.