We know who we are.
Ours is like one of those
ancient, fraternal orders
whose identifying rituals include
elaborate hand signals and
mysterious primal grunts.
In public,
the cue is often a series
of short, repetitive barks:
“Sit down!”
"Give me that!”
“Come here!”
"NOW!”
People who aren’t in the club
look disdainful, annoyed,
disgusted, or smug.
But fellow members grin—
slowly at first, as they
identify and empathize—
then broadly, as they
catch your eye and
nod slightly to acknowledge
well-known phrases and
familiar responses.
“Boys are somethin’, aren’t they?”
From A Mother of Sons: Poems of Wisdom, Love, and Dreams (Loyola Press, 2004).
Used here with the author's permission.
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