If I were the kind of man who spoke in sports metaphor
I’d say I lost the title. That giant belt
they give you at the end of a match when
you’re sweating onto that big field of blue.
Gold and gilded, toothless and tasting copper.

But, I’m still not sure why men talk about belts and boats
like they’re women,
and women like they’re something to be won.

It seems I’ve always been a better cartographer
than punch puller and
so I write to you about road trips, and miss you
in a way that makes
posturing masculinity seem
momentarily reasonable.

I know you always liked a good fight.


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