how a real man crosses

Erect as a tree
shooting from earth’s warm bosom
was his stance, as muscle memory
and will alone
carried his form across the room
to where she stood
planted as fixture amid the decor.


is this really me?

I’m not used to muscles
still the skinny lank-jobbed boy
who was so awkward with people
skirting age thirty now
packing on pounds
pounding the gym
power lifts and power squats
a beefcake
still and little meek
a little boy at times
not at home in one’s own skin
feel like a poser, a fake
a wannabe, fraudulent
trying to be what I’ll never be
unbelieving, undeserving