Lover
Love, what little boys
dwell in grown men’s hearts,
struggling to break free.
I want to spend the day in bed,
buried beneath the blankets.
I want to call out for attention.
Will you boil me an egg?
Bring sweet, sugared tea?
Cut my toast into tiny soldiers
so I can march them through
the boiled egg’s yolk?
Upstairs, downstairs, I want
to keep you running all morning.
Will you straighten my blankets?
Will you tuck me in so only
my eyes and nose are showing?
Bring me my dog: let her lie
beside me, warmth and comfort
in her wet tongue washing me.
Suddenly, my world’s caved in
and there’s so much missing.
Lover: be a mother to me.
rogermoorepoet 
Good concept of eternal love.marvellous,sir.
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Wonderful poem! Love the toast soldiers marching through the egg yoke! Sometimes we really miss the pampering of our mothers long gone!
Dwight
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Thank you: it is a golden oldie, written before 1991. I lost my mum in ’87 and my dad in ’89 and this was a carry over, I think, from losing them. And yes: real men are not afraid to admit to their weaknesses. What weaknesses? I’m a real man: I have none.
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Uniquenesses rather than weaknesses!
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Don’t tell me this one is twenty-five years old! This reminds me of the way men are when they have the man-flu! Pat, pat, there, there… It’ll be ok!
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Little do you know how much we men (the real men, not the he-men) need those pat-pats. And the boiled egg in bed with little toastie fingers to stick in the egg yolk. And a cat is no substitute for a dog at cuddle time.
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Haha! I know. I know. Fortunately, for you all, we love to mother our men. And dogs do seem to know when you need them, don’t they? My dog is such a faithful comforter when I don’t feel well.
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