real men don’t cry
they mourn their dead fathers
they light their mothers’ pyres
even bury their kids
pay their mortgage
the debt they owe
to all those who can take from them
and have taken
despite the filial familiarity
the friendships
real men don’t cry
at the hopelessness
of a dying sun
at the crawling night
and the unoriginal prose
of working in a city
with menial pay
and longer work hours
the constant abuse
and then the country liquor
the bar brawls
coming home to their simple wives
damaged and hurting
hating every single comfort
even the outline of their mouths
beating them senseless
with the baby crying in the background
real men don’t cry
their women do.
