The women

were always waiting. Like a cat.
They would stand or sit quietly
watching, perhaps stirring a bowl
of porridge, waiting till
we men had finished
deliberating on something
important—it was always
something important—
before they would pass the dish
to the one who had requested
it. They were always waiting,
waiting for us men, glancing
askance at us to see whether
we were ready for them
to approach. We told them
from an early age that such
waiting was to their benefit,
that the quiet and the distance
allowed us to serve their needs,
which we couldn’t do if they
distracted us. So they waited.
And now, when we are ready
to beckon them approach,
only the cat remains.