The sort of charm of pipes and shaving kits and things made of leather.
The charm of men who drink Jenever
and fought in the war.
They are old men.
Our fathers or grandfathers.
Charming with their tweed and antique handguns and easy masculinity.
They wish they spoke like Hemingway,
so they chop their feelings instead of their sentences,
show their affection by talking about your car.
"You dress like an old man," my last girlfriend said about my hat.
I want to skip straight to old, missing awkward and gawky and this second puberty.
I envy them their beards,
their unquestioned assumptions,
their bodies which, at least once, matched
before they needed doctors to make things work.
We have that much in common.