Vagina Left At Home

You invited me home
to discuss my poems.
Before I could establish that
the ‘her’ in my poem is not me,
the last drop of coffee from
the cup had been relished.
Then, the fourth call from
your wife came.
You discussed the night’s dinner.
In an interlude, you told me
that your wife dislikes literature
and women who write even more.
Meanwhile, you stammered
when talking about the third
word in the seventh line of
my twenty-seventh poem
in my collection.
“You’re right, sir! The vagina
mentioned there is mine.
Sadly, I left it at home.”