you see in his face the baby
you held tight like nothing else to hold
you poured in love as from a garden hose
endless and clear
now a scraggly bunch of whiskers
interspersed with the blemishes
the many imperfections
the being human
that so distresses him
leaves you incapable
the spigot turns on,
dams up inside
there’s nothing you can do
there’s nothing you can do
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