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 am a shoulder for unshed tears,
the anointable chest when the eyes' throes
flow like acid woes.
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, dumb, docile convenience.