Manhood

My bears' beard came in when I turned eighteen.
I dipped my audacity in manhood
and it spit me out like sugarless tea.
The trenches near sent me back to curfews.

A man must talk and bear his own garbage:
He runs, He dies, and breaks his spine for pay
that’s bare. He does not shed tears to carnage,
He wars gracefully- like Frank to the Sway.

I never was taught to war silently
like shirts that know the wrath of a pen leak;
to walk giant and to laugh defiantly
at the loud drums and dances of deadbeats.

But I swear by my face to the beehive
I am – by my way- a man come alive!

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