My poem is wrong for right now; you're too young
to reach the table-top.
You flip flop. At any little thing you
drop into a puddle of tears. You are hungry!
You are tired! You clutch fiercely then release
as if independence was your always. Mistress
of Your Own Fate climbing the stairs.
Soon stumblebumping back down. You're not ready
to fit your feet into my shoes. Let alone inch the wee pink fingers of your hand into my poem, yet here you are--
Sneaky! Precocious! in the second stanza, making a mess.
This place, my poem, is a box of jewelry, full of hard woman things and I want them kept at bay like fierce dogs gated--
for as long as I can keep them gated so get out.
I'm saying it nicely this time
but next time I won't and you'll find mommy has an upsetting number of teeth and that
what this poem can do is too old for you.
