I want to write a poem for the men on Long Island
At least, the ones I know
To most of whom I’m related or as good as
And then there’s the one always playing the piano
Who makes music that’ll warm you as much as the embraces of all of the men I know from Long Island
Who hug like a house and a home cooked meal
Though,
I have seen them raise with anger the same hands used to welcome
I want to write a poem for the men on Long Island
Not because they need it,
But because I need to
And I wish I could only write of warmth
But too often has it also been followed by heat for me to do so
I want to write a poem for the men on Long Island
Who give me most anything they find lying around
But whose gifts I have accepted less and less readily with time
And these days never without sifting through first to pick out all of the stuck on masculinity they leave everything covered in
I find it in the coffee in the monring
Covered in sauce in my pasta at the dinner table
They sign the check with it when we go out to eat.
I want to write a poem for the men on Long Island
Because once my grandfather told me to cut my hair,
He only has one granddaughter he says
He won’t have me turning into one too
I want to write a poem for the men on Long Island
Because if my grandfather saw half the things I wear
or a small part of my closet
He’d raise his hand
And I know it would not be in welcome.
Laurels and Lore 