iron my sheets

you can't write
a poem about abortion
she tells
you with hands on
her wide
hips.
making a stand
in the doorway
as she stops folding
clothes
to scold you.
you're a man.
you can't have
babies, so what
do you know about
it?
just leave that topic
alone
and go write
about man stuff.
like war,
and crime.
money and power.
sorry to interrupt
you, you tell her
but did you use
that non scented
detergent on those
clothes, the other
one is too strong
and makes me
itch, and I like
my sheets ironed
if you don't mind