One shot
The lion is dead.
His head is mounted on the wall,
The hunter needs to show to all
The trophy of his masculinity.
He strides into the room,
Sweeping opposition
As if with a broom.
He has wives and lies
And needs your votes
To boast
He’s a man in full bloom.
He sits at the end
Of the long hardwood desk
And flashes a big bottom line
To show that his manhood is fine.
And then you see
The real man.
He needs no vast profit
To prove he has merit.
No need for a trophy
To show that he’s manly.
No pretentious mantle;
Strong enough to be gentle,
Heroic enough
To tend you when you’re weak
And quietly protect the meek.
He has a powerful grasp
Of himself and the world’s lies.
Laughter and mischief in his grin;
No need to prove he is masculine.
Read more poems by Sharon Heaney Stansfield