An auburn-bearded boy wanders into Walmart,

hangs right, right towards the cosmetics section,

passing old men perusing probiotic brands,

young children on the tips of their toes

reaching for Superman Band-Aids,

the sweet smells of perfume tester strips

and screaming babies overwhelming his senses.

He reaches the nail aisle, sidesteps

a group of girls huddled in front of the polishes,

gives an awkward nod to some millennial women walking out,

turns his body and faces a stocked display of press-on nails.

Head cocked to the side,

he looks at dark red stilettos,

coffin-shapes decorated like cotton candy clouds,

glittery pink medium-lengths

and thin white French lines.

These are his Fridays:

pick up some six dollar acrylics,

glue the largest sizes on wide-set fingernails,

and embrace this side of himself—

the one drawn towards femininity,

the very same he represses, sitting in the shower

on Sunday nights, frustrated tears with hands

drenched in acetone, dreading his male-dominated day job.

But not this Friday.

A hairy arm grabs the longest, brightest set

in the store-bedazzled leopard print with orange jewels.

It’s not his style, but it’s loud. Busy. Bold.

Tonight, he’ll triple the amount of glue,

make them impossible to rip off,

pushing both their so-so quality

and corporate comfortability—

This Sunday, they’ll stay on. He’ll stay on.