all the metronomes have melted

all the metronomes have melted

in the stagnant summer months

and we can’t keep a beat

to save our lives

though our spines are loose

and our fists are tight

ba-dum-dum-dum bop

ba-dum-dum-dum bop

I’m sick of moaning

for my masculinity

I want to scream, like him,

for the lost spirit of man

while

stomping up and down the stairs

and then charging

into the living room,

and smashing the coffee table

into a thousand splintered bits.

and everyone, leaping behind couches

and into corners, spilling drinks,

will shriek

“my god what is he doing?”

and, settling into the love seat,

aristocratic ahem,

I will cross my legs

quite calmly

and assure them all

it is simply

a particular native dance

passed down

by my not-so-distant ancestors,

assure them all

it is quite natural.