Hairy Harlow

Oh Harlow,
you hairy mother,
you lover of things lost and abused,
did you think you were the first
to consider contact comfort?

Hardly a day passes the hirsute masses
don't call out
       for a kiss
       a caress
       a kind word
soothing their sad whimpers in the night.

Arms around, he expounds, for a bouncing baby boy
gleaming spit on his chin, shit held politely in,
never late for supper, never disrespecting Mother.

Poor Harlow,
you lonely mama's boy,
you damaged admirer of your own reflection.
Matrons of wire press in on all sides
and you're left alone to dry your eyes
       gnawing at a dry, dusty nipple.

Who wouldn't rather starve, Harry Harlow?
Who wouldn't throw a tantrum, go berserk?
All problems can be solved with a liberal application
       of hiding underneath dear Mummy's skirt.

Leave the monkeys in their cages,
where they'll revert to their natures
and raise well-adjusted monkey sons.
Head on home, Mr. Harlow,
       and learn to your sorrow
       you can't buy, sell or borrow
       the love that was absent from your home.