Contraption Man: A poem

I’m just convenient,
a useful guy, instrumental,
not particularly handsome, nor clever,
but handy, practical, expedient,
helpful and obliging ever.

I’m the shoulder for unshed tears,
the soilable chest when the eyes' woe
finally falls like acid rain.
I am the ear that swallows wild sorrows,
the hand that washes the dishes,
a hanger for coats, 
or a ride for everyone’s ventures.

I’m compliant, conforming, conforting,
a tool of a man sometimes proficient,
inept occasionaly —in the end unbecoming;
an organic device with a gulped-down soul,
a jerry-built heart, a patchwork mind,
and a bag of faded feelings.

You might come to feel that it’s love
what you harbor for me,
but don’t fool yourself:
I’m not ecstasy, dew, starway, nor fire,
I’m not music, dance, trance, thrill, excitement
—I am just dull, docile convenience.