Kendyl Daley - On Men

The best parts of a man require no man at all. 

The boots by the door, worn, with the tongue lolling,

as though from the snout of an old basset hound. 

To hold a bottle of beer by two fingers around the neck,

as if to check its pulse; men do not need to hold anything tightly,

there is no threat to the grip of those knotted fingers.

Deep denim pockets for leather wallets, leaden with change.

A wallet-sized picture of a lady, 

to slip between the change in said leaden leather wallet. 

Spiced cologne that stings soft skin. 

The smell of malt in the back of the throat, 

lips cold to kiss and wet with drink. 

Hair on the knuckles. 

Cotton socks with tears on the toe and heel, 

like portholes on a white steel vessel. 

To shave in the bathroom sink 

and leave salt and pepper refugees  

in a grey wreath about the silver drain. 

To lounge, a cat in a sun spot,  

stretched out on her couch, 

with a belly that endears the masses. 

Thick eyebrows. 

Wayward strays for a woman to herd into place 

with the pad of a masterful thumb. 

Cigarettes pinched between gapped teeth. 

No need to be pretty; no need to stay young. 

Wrinkles around the eyes from a life laughing. 

A life loud. 

To eat and not think. 

To drink and not think.

To make love and not think. 

To think very little, if at all. 

Loafers, folded at the back by a cracked heel. That dragging of the feet. 

The blissful inertia of the guaranteed. 

Sleeves that hang to the elbow, 

and the muscles underneath, 

to open stubborn jars of marinara sauce, 

and to impress woman writers 

who call you a brute 

but make you the muse of their poetry.