You want to be a good man, the kind that opens doors physical & metaphorical, that worships on sundays, a good man with a good hat, who tips it to his lady & says goodnight ma’am with no more than a peck on the cheek, of course; you want to build her a kitchen island, to have tea on the porch, to be a good man, crack hazelnuts for her in december & bring home each day’s daily bread, bring her a colony of fish that you caught, you want to skin them, heat up the grill and throw them on, watch her pick the bones, you want her bones, you want her muscles to release, to power you like electricity, you want to build the walls to house her wire, to strip them just so, to cease sparks from flight– and like a good man, you tiptoe out of the hallway, leaving the key she made for you on the counter, and like a good man you hail a cab to the river and will never call her again, you’re gone before sunrise, you wash your hands of her and dive into that river, watch wind brush its fingers through tall grass, lay back and let currents wash you over, like a good man, everything is yours.