Phonograph Mouth

          When your wife is worried after the cares of the day, and the children are
                boisterous, I can rest the one and quiet the other.


Does she fancy a minuet or the call
of a foreign shore? I’ve a portfolio of bird warbles,

a trio of mended seams and pockets stitched. What care
could she have, your bride, that I can’t


coax to rest while you sit outside and smoke your evening’s
fix? I’m the basket and the tisket. I’ll take her to task


on melancholy. Tarantella for the Mrs. and fox-trot
for the babe, bounce dimpled knees to dream, pull


soft hips to the chaise and fan her down. Your concerns, sir,
chisel hours of the day while she backflips through clothespins,


tangles with sheets. You’ve no idea how the teething,
the rattle of need, crawl of hold-me caws in those ears.
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