Brown Cow Poem by Charlotte Ballard

Truth is a slippery thing
Twisted by lies, or
Looks, or an expression
That begs for the reader
To think of more, of
A different chocolate
Slip of grace....how
Now, brown cow?
Do you pine for shaded
Trees, and farmers who
Press with warm hands
In your private place?
I, too, wish for doctors
Who know that warm hands
Are better than cold speculums.
How now, brown cow?
Do they push your ovaries as
They press mine? Do they
Mention a golf game
And when was your last pap smear?
I don't look, even as I am helped up.
I hate the invasion of male
Hands in a spread female place
Slippery with careless gel and
Professional aplomb.
I take a long time to dress.