I. Dads are good
It was a dad, it was a dad, it usually is a dad. 
I’m envious of dads. They look good devouring 
yellow eggs, pinching inky newspapers, slipping 
out of Goodwill suits. Fashion is dad
shouldering the cross in jeans—a please come 
in and give. There’s the Pharisee, the angry Jesus, 
the bloody Jesus, a Greco palace to worship, 
the rich walking through the eye of a needle. 
Daddy wears a gold cross, leaves wads of cash 
on the dresser of his six-hour room. Works hard for me, 
fucks fucks fucks—a real babe in his machismo get-up; 
he’s a man that knows bathhouse convenience.
II. Dads fuck great 
God is on your side, Daddy Machismo. Ask for forgiveness 
when you get a chance. Until then, fuck fuck fuck this twink—
Toro through my fabric softened briefs; doodle the air
with Looney Tune clouds of hamper scented popper snorts. 
Yes, a legal substance, Daddy Machismo, and you would know 
if you didn’t have to sneak down the halls—
the grunting halls, the halls where love is present, 
love is temporary, love won’t find a witness, love is dimly lit, 
clandestine twinks chorusing you a top, baby? Soft lips for us, 
soft lips for their “Mary Had a Little Lamb” daughters.
Lies and fucking, dads aren’t all the same, but Goddamn 
there is a lot of them that won’t fit this mold, 
this peephole meant for a Puritan mob. Men that want me 
in a dress, want me as their maids, want me as smooth as their wives. 
I’m not a girl, I’m not a girl, yet I find myself corset-bound 
seeking five-minute love in this God-forgiven bathhouse.
Charles McGregor teaches composition and creative writing at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. His poetry, often deal­ing with queer issues, can be found in modest literary magazines such as Xenith, Enhance, No Infinite, Boundless, Portland Review, and The Missing Slate. Follow him on Twitter @CMcgregor209.
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