The young boy sat in the leather armchair
in front of his father’s desk,
all the while trembling in fear,
crushed under the weight of his father’s imposing presence.
The man tapped his fat, jeweled fingers on his desk,
blowing cigar smoke into his son’s face,
the ultimate form of disrespect.
The boy shivered, knowing that his mother was outside,
anxiously waiting for him to come out
because she should not hear their private conversation,
lest she be scolded as well.

No.
This was men’s business.

The boy sunk into his chair slightly,
leaning back as flecks of spit
glittered his face, knowing that the slightest
slouch or fearful gesture would cause his father
to look down upon him even more.
He did not want to be unfit to be called a man.
Or even more so, his father’s son.
Impatiently, the fat man opened a drawer and drew out charts,
Then slamming it shut with the force of an earthquake.
He spread out the sheets in front of the little boy,
explaining their contents with a cold, reserved harshness.
The boy nodded, pretending to understand;
he would work hard. He vowed to himself
that he would understand soon.

However, he could only worry about his parents,
his mother cowering outside, a meek and frail existence.
He could only listen
as his father broke him, trying to talk business.
Flecks of spit and cigar smoke
choking his innocence and his youth.

He would have to grow up soon
if he were to be a valuable successor.
He would have to endure the smoke and saliva.
He would have to understand the papers
with lines and long words and no pictures.
He would one day have to become
this man’s image and likeness.

So this is what Mom calls a “man-to man talk”.