(I read a love poem, dedicated to my wife, to a group of poets, most of whom were women. When I finished reading, one of the women cried out, “I want my husband to write a poem like that to me!)

Well, girlfriend, he won’t.

Because he doesn’t have an inkling,

not even a clue

that you even want him to!

He hasn’t felt poetry in his heart

since his Momma suckled him.

(Maybe not even then

if the sucking was just for milk

and not for the cuddling and caressing)

But remember,

you married him as is!

So add to your desire for a “body-mate”

and teach him to be your “heart-mate”

A body- mate has the

“Me-Tarzan-You-Jane”,

hunter and gather,

million year old tradition

of him marching out from your cave

to kill a wooly mammoth

and bravely wrestling a saber-tooth for the meat,

then trudging back to his homestead seat,

lusty for a quickie”

mentality

that’s by now genetic!

And it’s good….

but not enough for you….

For now, you’re craving Poetry!

And even if he’s your “Mind-Mate”,

I mean like you and he can talk,

Oh! Yes! Just talk about anything,

politics, birds, bills,

Anne Hathaway and Glen Close wearing Prada,

and you LOVE the way he thinks!

Such a BRAIN he has!

And it’s good…

But not enough for you, Now.

So teach him what it means

to be your “heart-mate”

even if it goes against

everything

he thinks is the maleness

you married him for!

Sure!

A total species shift!

You lusted after his iron-solid biceps

and his rippling six pack

but now you want….

soft.

a little emotional mushiness….

A single, sunflower surprise

on the table by your bed…

A poem in the morning,

under your coffee cup.

So?

Show him!

Write a poem dedicated to him!

Say to him, “Honey, there’s enough

frozen mammoth meat in the freezer!

Just lay beside me under the blankets

and,… NO! NOT THAT! NOT NOW!

(slap his hand, but playfully…)

Just hold me….

That’s it!

And read your poem to him.

I know!

I know!

This smacks of regression

toward the old fashion repression.

It’s reactionary!

Why should you have to….

He should know….

Eh!

Look,

That poem you desire isn’t coming

from your discussion of the relative merits

of the two party electoral system.

That softness you crave isn’t coming

after spending Sunday afternoon

preparing pizza and garlic nuts

to eat during the Giants-Eagles game.

So,

Ignore the old threats

from the age of Barbie and Phyllis Shafley

and teach him.

He needs you to teach him.

You need you to teach him.

Or poetry will never be

a part of your hearts perfect love.