Mr. Lonely Hearts (Poetry)

I'm scared of the street girl who postures and shouts;
the club girl who wiggles and gestures and pouts;
the go-getting business girl hot in pursuit
of a seat on the board and a share of the loot.

I'm wary of covergirl types, glossy-lipped
with unfeasible figures, impossibly hipped,
thin as a wire and too highly strung
for an ordinary chap used to plain and homespun.

I shy from the sporty girls, bronzed by the sun,
their muscle-toned confidence second to none,
but I'm stuck on the sidelines, a face with no name,
too nervous and nerdy to ask for a game.

I'm tongue-tied and sweaty and quaking with fear
whenever a flesh-and-blood female comes near -
the shop girl; the teacher; the dancer; the nun -
they're all unattainable, each passing one.

I dream of a homely type clucking around
in slippers and pinny, her comforting sound
unfailingly cheerful, she fusses and dotes,
sews on my buttons and brushes my coat,

straightens my tie as I leave for the fray,
her kiss a warm keepsake to last me all day,
her voice curls its promise down deep in my soul,
my queen of the kitchen so wholesomely whole.

I look at these modern girls once in a while
and sometimes they notice and sometimes they smile,
but I'm just a quiet type seeking someone
a little old-fashioned and rather like my mum.