There is a kind of love called maintenance/ Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;/ Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget/ The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;/ Which answers letters; which knows the way/ The money goes; which deals with dentists/ And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,/ And postcards to the lonely; which upholds/ The permanently rickety elaborate/ Structures of living; which is Atlas. — E. U. Fanthorpe