What Men Want - Poem by Laura McCullough
It's not a mystery. Blow Jobs.
Talk with any man who feels safe
enough to tell you about the man-
code, and he'll admit it. Blow. Jobs.
Talk with any group of women
and they'll confirm the fact. After
they agree, they'll make stingy jokes
about blood loss to the brain, balls-
on-the-nose attitude not limited
to men. Keep talking to the men
though, alone, or at best, in twos;
they'll get sincere, even seem awed,
mouth words so no one will hear.
The boy bagging your groceries,
the old man delivering pizza when you're
too tired to cook, the young soldier back
from Iraq with his balls in his hands,
the neighbor's son aching to go as soon
as he can: smile at them, no matter what
they say about smiles and oppression.
Touch them, and, if you can get away
with it, kiss them, kiss them all,
goodbye, hello, at all public events
where kissing is free, and whisper
words boys never use as passwords
to their clubs in the woods. Begin
with the word mystery. Don't stop.
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