Little Pieces in Search of A Bigger Picture

THIS IS FOR

This is for the boys who rejected toy soldiers,

The plastic green ones who killed or were killed.

Rejected the Tonka Trucks and toy guns and rifles,

Because trucks didn't interest them, while the guns

And the rifles killed and killed and killed again.

This for the boys who preferred to be medics,

In spite of their patient's desire to kill or be killed.

This is for the men who went off to war,

Where kill or be killed was familiar territory,

Whose buddies while asleep might crawl into their bunk

And just cuddle for the touch,

Or lend a hand for sweet release.

This is for the boys who they laughed at

and now found that they longed for.

This is for the boys who escaped into books,

Who eschewed the endless manly games about balls

(of course, balls) – football, baseball, basketball, tennis,

Soccer, rugby, volleyball, racquet ball...

The boys who preferred imagination to endless repetition –

To put a ball through/under/over a hoop,

a goalpost, a net, a base, never-changing.

This is for the men who pat a teammate's ass,

Or grabs their full package in celebratory fashion,

The men at gyms who linger to see how they measure up.

Looking for the wink, the eyebrow, the gaze held too long

Ending in sweaty, furtive couplings. Putting on

Their real-life costumes and their wedding rings, they

Return to their wives and children and self-hatred.

This is for the boys who are picked on, publicly shamed

By their schoolmates or teachers, the boys who long for anyone

Safe enough to talk to about love, or feelings, for the boys

Who see hypocrisy in their friends and family and the world

Who fight every day to find some way to love themselves

The boys who hide from themselves every second of every day

Until one day maybe it's too much and they're gone.

This is for the men many of those boys might become,

Still hiding, hypocritical, hateful and ashamed to admit

That they're without courage, living the lie for

Decades, blaming everyone but themselves for the

Non-crime of being different. Unable to forgive themselves

They continue to lash out at others brave enough to be proud.

Please, live. Open the door and let your truth out.

Most of all, this is for Bruce M and for me,

Two freshmen in a Jesuit high school, targets of two bullies.

I saw them, Hector and Eduardo, accost Bruce, who

was short at 15. Shaking in his locker, catching his gaze as

the tears flowed; we recognized each other. Then

he asked, "Why didn't you help?" I didn't want to answer.

This is for the boys and men who know the answer