Or perhaps I won’t. My call.
Or perhaps I won’t. My call.
The boy who waits
To carry the books
Spending an hour in front of a mirror
Practising the words to use
As he greets her
The man who wears nail varnish
On his pinky
To satisfy his little girl’s wish
That he get in touch
With his feminine side
Old mister Jones
With the limp
Who takes roses home
To his wife every Saturday
They weed the garden together
Before lunch every Sunday
He wears an old straw hat
She bought in the Canaries
It has seen better days
But it is as part of him now
As the ring on his finger
Then there is Tommy the singer
Who wears a cummerbund
Practices his scales every day
In the shower
His wife makes the best
Lemon drizzle cake
In the county
She wins the prize every year
And he wins an award for his baritone
As well as his own
Home-brewed beer
The couple who sit in the public bar
Holding hands as they sip on a drink
The dad who waits in the car
Until the party ends
Before driving his daughter home
Without asking about ‘the boy’
He gets up at five in the morning
To take her to rhythmic gymnastics
Before going to work
Phoning his wife at lunchtime
Without fail
It is the highlight of his day
She waits until he breaks the call
It may be a childish game
But he plays along
Because this is the meaning of love
In this haphazard world
Where too many things happen
In a hurry
Sometimes lovers
Of all ages
Need to savour the moment
Take account of the small things
Adding one on one
Until they come together
To build
Something wonderful.