We poets need a god to emulate—

An inspiration-maker shedding light

On how the sexes always seem to fight.

Or compromise. (And not communicate.)

For me, her words are more than merely great.

They’re polished to perfection, apple-bright.

Years later they can still produce delight

And force us to admit a secret hate.

I love the quip she made when Coolidge died.

As usual, her barb was swift and choice.

Without a pause she asked, ‘How can they tell?’

What timing! What a gift for being snide.

And yet there is such pathos in her voice,

She makes you want to weep for her as well