The Patriarchy

Not all have gone
On break. Some, the seething type,
they've come to whisper in our skin
and snivel, beg to be let in.

No chickens here! Let's remember,
We're in the city; what's that
got to do with it all? The rasping
voice lives in the grates,
the whispering steams our skin at every turn:
Not all have gone
On break. Some, the seething type,
They've come, and behind our eyes
they chatter quietly, and wait.