a boy who reads in poetry

I have chopped firewood
but I honestly hate it
I've only ever done it
so that my aging father wouldn't
because he can't admit that
his heart can't take it
but I hate to sweat
and it makes my hands hurt
I'd rather be writing jokes
I am a Boy Who Reads

I've had a big old beard
but it goddamned itches
and it grows too fast
it's too much work to keep it even
I'd rather just scrape my face
with a rock in the shower
every two or three mornings
and have the rest of the day
to not worry about making
it looking dashing
I am transparent
I am not a masculine mystery
I am a Boy Who Reads
and I'm not going to pretend

the big secret is that
most musky mountain men
will expect you to be
barefoot and pregnant and
cooking them breakfast at five A.M.
and the most I'd ask of you
is to sit through the
occasional Mets game
I can change a tire on my car
if I have to
I have
but it's dirty
and disgusting
and it takes me four times longer
than a well-trained professional
who has to earn a living too and
hey they're here for a reason
I'd rather go home and watch Bladerunner

I will not pretend to be aloof
or strong or mysterious
just so you can feel like you discovered the prize inside
I'm no box of cereal
I'm see through as glass
neurotic hilarious
fucked up and loving
scatterbrained cellophane
to set up identity games
would diminish us
both

and James Dean, honey
he'll spend more time fixing his hair then you do
he'll take a week to pick out a pair of jeans
and then he'll go wrap a car around a fucking tree
and so maybe instead
consider a Boy Who Reads

the twenty three hours a day
when you're too tired
for pretend mysteries
will be better
maybe in that one hour
watch some teevee
and moon over some character
that you know isn't real
and I'll be there when you get back

I'll be in bed
reading