Poem of the Week #100

To Him, Who Has to Ask

He hears a mother's work is never done,
so he does his part; goes forth, late at night
for meds or milk, then stands aside, alone,
watching her clutch a sleepy child so tight.
Useless appendage he has come to be,
the bacon-bringer, the sprung seed that was.
Would he be bolder near a stranger's knee?
Nah. It would only hurt the kids, because
they don't have to ask her for her loving.
Why can't she just espouse his one request
and help him stock their shelves with something
like supplies? His need to be loved and kissed
with cherry pie, a box of mac and cheese,
a can of soup, a can of comfort. Please.

Lisa Vihos