I can still remember how
annoyed he got the first time
I used it, “Door mat,”
the way his mother let a brute
of a man walk all over her.
“Door mat”—you’d think I’d
called his mother whore or
bitch. Not strange, I went on,
so many women are.
I stated a list of them: the
ones who faked orgasm to
keep some man, the ones who
say nothing when strangers
look and call their husbands,
“charming, so nice.” Door mat
I say. I like the word. The ones
someone else wipes their feet,
their penis all over: what
woman I want to say without a
job, a good job and kids hasn’t
had a stint keeping her mouth shut,
making excuses. One friend has
taken to buying cheap sexy
clothes, bustiers and fish
net instead of painting. Door
mat, dour mat. Door mat
I want to scream at him, at
my friend who coddles a 45
year old’s son who probably
steals her money. Even Hillary
was I hiss, standing up for
him with his penis in who
knows whose mouth. I want
to say, maybe because I feel
so tired and hardly an Amazon
today, walking about, some
one not me, afraid like all the
other doormats to say what I
am really thinking
