The Man Code

The Man Code says you can get drunk for her, once,
cry if your eyes are itchy, if your face needs hydration,
then buck up and fuck a stranger, find the loosest girl
in the bar and lead with your best line. You might try:
Did it hurt? Did it hurt, beautiful, when you fell from the sky?
Whatever you do, when you get her back to your motel—
the one where you’ve been living for a week since your wife
asked you to leave, and it reeks of stale cigarette smoke
and Febreze, with a toilet that tilts ten degrees to the left—
be sure you put away the picture of your six-year old son,
the one you’ve kept on the nightstand, where your boy
is smiling and the space between his missing front teeth
seems big enough to drive through with a truck of apologies.
Once the girl is naked, and you’re naked, and you’re both
writhing beneath the bleached sheets, be sure not to say
that you miss your wife, be sure you don’t whimper
and offer her the cab fare home. The Man Code says,
if you do, you’re definitely a pussy, a homo, a human being.