Manhood’s Gambit

We do not choose the parents who birthed us.

My father asked me if I wanted to stay	in England.
His voice echoed between mountains	with great canyons, fading,
remembering his face from two pictures,	hardly,
remembering the Cadbury Chocolate Roses,	the aftertaste. No
loving calls, nor weekly, monthly visits recalled	ever. No
proclivity for me to be rooted to his tree	or spring buds.

My stepfather was presence, postured to parent us	with anger
instead of teaching math, football, manhood.	Feeling empty
for a patriarch-guide, providing stories of life.	My mummy scraping
for our emotional needs; his loving touch	missing,
given to glasses of stiff drink.

My adolescence welcomed advisement	from a man, arms wide,
my friend’s father, pseudo-father role	teaching me
the mechanics of cars, life, to	touch a woman
with respect, kind voice, a smile,	willing to laugh
with sincere heart.

I played the three-shell game, guessing
after a green pea, finding stale
affinity in these fathers, strangers,
to explain my hairs growing, leaving reeking odors
when not cared for—my teenage feelings,
my unraveling when seized on by riotous peers,
those tempting serpents that a father or real male mentor
could have deflected.