Kind babble flows freely
and functionally from mouths
once given to whispers.
Babysitters of the world unite.
And the pinnacle of human enterprise
grows moldy midday. Why I’m not surprised
should be a worrisome prospect, I think.
Yet as I recline here, gargling ink
and casting stones, I feel not
the wet caress of fear nor
the weight of love’s dumb entreaties
pressing me into its bog.
A day worthy of remembrance,
you could say. And only be half-correct.