She called me her curved love handle
Always there to hold
A perfect fit for her loving hands
As we lovingly enfold

She called me her gentle spoon rest
A constant solid comfort
Shaped to scoop her perfectly
As we both dozed and slumbered

She called me her hot water bottle
Filled to the brim with warmth
Easily raising heat by degrees
Against advancing cold fronts

She called me to say her goodbyes
She said it wasn't working
She'd found a man less domesticated
And one far less demanding

Blessed are the father-hearted
The reluctant to be child parted
Blessed are the bushy bearded
The happy to be pulled and smearded

Blessed are the on-all-fours
The role-players with scary roars
Blessed are the rollers on floors
The willing to ignore both knee-sores

Blessed are the hearty laughers
The bellows of the not by half-ers
Blessed are the childlike fathers
And happy the children who follow soon after

Work through the *******
through to the other side
where words may make more sense
and your mind be perhaps less dense
and where your poems may at last materialise

Startled at the turn of twelve
Not any other time
Her cultured tones sound so amazed
Before the expected chime

What is it that's shocked her so
Whatever could be the matter
Is it the echo of some past time
Or some rival chronometer

At the third stroke she'll be oh so precise
And disclose the appointed hour
She'll watch each minute slowly disappear
My most reliable of voyeurs.

Let bygones be whatever they'll be
and regret a thing of the past,
temper that sorrow
with plans for tomorrow
and invest in friends who will last.

An inner page
frayed but full to four edges with marginalised annotations leaving nothing unsaid over the bleeding watermark shouting its insistence that nothing is ever finished only paused pending further inspiration from yet unheard whispers from beyond the perimeters of this captured inner rage.

She touched my ***.
I'm sure she touched my ***.
She's getting off on the 20th floor.
At least she did yesterday.
I've not got long.
What do I do? Turn and smile?
Do I subtly return the compliment as she passes by?
Did she touch my ***?
Or was it that bloke's bag?
I don't think she did.
She didn't touch my ***.
Don't be daft.
There she goes. 
I wonder why she limps that way?
(Sigh)
Blast, I'm late again.