Weren’t the Fifties Weird? – A Poem by Rowe Williams

A show called "Leave it to Beaver" tickles the back of my mind.
I have never seen this show. I am only aware of its existence.
I believe it tells of a time where men were men, women women, 
    et cetera.
When people knew what that meant, and if you didn't you could damn 
    well get your queer nonsense off of my property.
Now I don't know what it means, and no one is rude enough to tell me.
I am a man but not a man, because I don't know how.
Perhaps I have been three children in a trench coat this whole time 
    without realizing.

Maybe if I watched "Leave it to Beaver" I would learn.
Now beaver is a less popular euphemism for a vagina, especially one 
    still in possession of its pubic hair.
There are proponents of the idea that manhood is "earned," shall we 
    say, from a vagina.
The implication being that sex is a transaction not of love, but identity.
A penis and vagina are introduced to one another and learn the other's
    intimate secrets, until one or both are satisfied, and the owner of the 
    vagina in question has, regardless of her own opinion, somehow 
    bestowed masculinity upon the proud owner of the penis.
Is that my answer? Beaver, I'll leave it to you.