Men Don’t Cry
I am a man; men don’t cry
But it is oft there’s something in my eye
When a woman gives me flowers
Or on a random Tuesday counting my blessings
At the movies, in the dark, more often than one would think
It is a chronic problem, really it is
I feel that little something amiss
When I take out our years-faithful vacuum cleaner to the dumpster
Or see my old car towed off to its next life
Or bury a bird that fell from a nest too high
I would see a physician about such a thing
But don’t know what troubles a cure would bring
When maybe that’s what eyes are for
Living such malady makes life more