Next time, I want a man
who works with his hands.
Temples damp with sweat,
skin russet crisp from the sun,
hard arms, set jaw,
one of Whitman's pioneer boys
squinting in the rippling heat,
splashing in the lake.
A modern day child of Adam,
body ripped from digging and lifting,
whistling at women in summertime cars,
but always imagining me.

I want a man with dirty jeans who
wouldn't understand this poem,
but would love that I wrote it for him.
And after coming in the door
every night at six
would put his calloused fingers softly
on my face, the kitchen growing hot
with early dinner.

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