The trick in all this trickiness
is to deceive the nasty inner thing carried
under our hardy skins.
Sure, you have access to tools, use
the river’s suncut pills
of tranquillity & outboards perhaps
go see a woman, take
her touch five times per day.
Painting houses & epiphanies
there is always the excuse wrapped
in a criminal shrug.
One long declining tide, our story
reveals wonders & desiccates simultaneously, the
horrible harmony of our aging.
Aim for the stars… rules state blokes can shoot one item per day –
even just nailing an argument
there’s convulsion & guts.
We never clean up afterwards.
Spit flies from the driver’s side window
of a metallic green Mazda.
There is beauty everywhere
& trajectory within vapours.
Men fearlessly remove their fellow
domestic pests – cockroaches, rodents.
We are a problem
that is not insurmountable.
Should be managed with tolerance
& vigilance… advised on appropriate clothes
or counselled down to sensitivity
(what we say is what we are?).
Take us out for a run
the north wind hurtling
laughter through our thinning hair.
We sing badly & rarely
but with great passion.
Let us repair the shower screen. Hold our cocks
then lead us to your pleasure.
We are better than cats
for most household camaraderies.