The Little Insult

Son of a bitch, she called me. I object,
The little insult shaming both of us.
She thought that I’d collapse — “What a mean cuss!”
She thought I’d mumble — but me, I dissect,
Examine, ponder, use my intellect,
Compare meanings. I mean to make a fuss,
But only as a man. It’s not a plus
To be called puppy dog. That’s not correct.

I say I’m just as awful as the mother,
The woman, über-bitch, heartless grande dame
Of grand guignol — just smile, say “Thank you ma’am”
And meekly turn first one cheek then the other.
I tell myself: Don’t be her tragic brother,
Be the original, bitch that I am.