the traditionalist

throws down his coat in the
puddle, always wraps his arm
around,
squeezes her in public, goes to
church on sunday, shows her off to
his mom, takes her to his favorite bar,
lets her wear his sports jerseys,
considers himself “the provider,”
considers himself “the head of the house,”
considers himself
at the peak of his masculinity---
has a big gun in the crib, has a big truck in
the driveway,
tucks in his shirt at all times
except on weekends,
wears shorts & has a perpetual beer in
hand on saturday---
reads the bible like he never read it before,
or the torah, or the koran,
but never wavers from the three so as to
not seem
too
far
off---
plans a wedding in the Spring,
accumulating the bank for a rug rat in the
Fall,
move in with her,
move with her from the apt. to a house,
move from rent to a mortgage,
got a lil’ green lawn that he cuts when in
his shorts/beer on Saturday,
flirts with the MILF across the street,
gets a dog & talks to him more than
“his woman”---
uses the word “bitch”
more frequently, as the wedding grows near,
then abstaining for a clear month just before that
“blessed event”---
puts up a white picket fence round his lil’ lawn
when they get back from the honeymoon &
after she finds out she’s pregnant,
he sits down to write out what his son will become,
because that is what works with the plan,
he’s got to have a son,
because there are things that he didn’t take the time
to do,
which his son will do &
there are things that he had a short ambition for & then wrote off,
which his son will run the long run on &
accomplish &
if she has a daughter,
well, then, she will have
another & if she won’t, if she can’t,
he’ll “convince her” or he’ll
trade her in &
as his thinking begins to grow darker,
as he begins to spin his webs
behind the television that’s always on &
the white picket fence,
he’s just perfectly ready to become a father,
to condemn someone who
never had a chance.