Men | The Poetry Foundation

It's tough being a guy, having to be gruff

and buff, the strong silent type, having to laugh

it off—pain, loss, sorrow, betrayal—or leave in a huff

and say No big deal, take a ride, listen to enough

loud rock and roll that it scours out your head, if

not your heart. Or to be called a fag or a poof

when you love something or someone, scuffing

a shoe across the floor, hiding a smile in a muffler

pulled up nose high, an eyebrow raised for the word quaff

used in casual conversation—wine, air, oil change at the Jiffy

Lube—gulping it down, a joke no one gets. It's rough,

yes, the tie around the neck, the starched white cuffs

too long, too short, frayed, frilled, rolled up. The self

isn't an easy quest for a beast with balls, a cock, proof

of something difficult to define or defend. Chief or chef,

thief or roofer, serf or sheriff, feet on the earth or aloof.

Son, brother, husband, lover, father, they are different

from us, except when they fall or stand alone on a wharf.

Source: The Book of Men (W. W. Norton & Company Inc., 2011)