The other men will catch the spiders in
their kitchens, wrestle jar tops, change the light
bulbs, check the funny noises in the night
and, nervous, stub their toes and swear and win
their kiss when stomping bravely back to bed.
My thanks to you. The role may be a lead;
it’s not heroic: it’s a soapie, it’s
a typecast grind. You’ll live in catch phrase bits
of script you once believed you’d never read.
You won’t believe the words you’ll find you’ve said.
Night comes to everyone alike. It’s dim,
not dark. It’s not as scary as it seems.
When night comes, there’s a hum of every him,
of prayers for love, for sleep, for change, for dreams.