No nonsense, no bitter and tease, no games for he

who knows how to sit in ease, soaking his bones in a tub full of tunes,

eager to please the senses, not hers but his, alone in his cocoon,

his lair of potions and scents, smiling to his core, through a heart’s lens.

Manhearted he is, easy to see, plain sight, no need to believe

an explanation for every cause, an analysis for every disease.

He’s hard around the edges, tender to the bone, and mean

when it matters, telling it like it is or should be, without making a scene.

No drama, dilemma, duress, or domineering desires to be yours,

he’s content where is, what he knows, and how he keeps score, for

what is a man but his mood, manner, and masculine mimicry, one

more father, son, uncle, brother, nephew, pal and bearded chum.

Blissful fullness, he steams in his own juices, a masterpiece in tile,

mosaic of a man, centuries stained in porcelain, skin of his brethren

swirling about him like bath salt silk and scum, floating atop the womb.

He’s a man from his wrinkled toes to his shit-eating grin, a y to her x,

not a performance, like the band playing in his head, but still play, effects

drilled into the cerebral cortex, the veins of desire, a man-hearted display.