Manscaping

Boyhood's wild masculine fantasies of conquering

"cannots" and "will nots" have lightning-lava tumbled

away from once carefree realities. I am tall,

but no pirate-viking-superhero-rock god.

I now lift pencils, furnish my home in Bed Bath & Beyond

knick knacks, and daintily sip white wine—

the capital paradigm repossessed my throne.

But last I checked during my morning's piss

I am a man, and like the towering Atlas,

a globe of testosterone rests on my shoulders.

My face is a cityscape for seizing back boyhood's

precocious demands to crash through the ceiling

of Aristotelian world views. Hair is the infinite ladder;

the war horn to scare away the ravens of Nevermore.

A Handlebar Mustache morphs lesser men into bare

knuckle brawling contenders; Friendly Mutton Chops

set one on equal footing with General Ambrose Burnside.

Circle beards, Soul Patches, Zappas and Anchors, all facial fluff

fortifies a man against melding among the "cannots" and "will nots"

of baby face persuasion. Release the envy of inner boyhood

because Charles Darwin understood what made the fittest.

(A poem for men who feel like their boyhood dreams of grandeur are gone. Repossess your throne!)