Monday, May 17, 2010

Well, You're Not THAT Old.

Happy Birthday Becks!

A Little Tooth

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore.  It's dusk.  Your daughter's tall.

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