There is a baby in the square, plumped down
on Papa’s thigh and gumming an unreared
fist with so fixed a zeal that drool has smeared
spots on her pink bib puce.
Her stubbly crown,
prodigious forehead, and concern-pursed brow
seem those of Socrates, whose unforbearing
inquest shamed the wrong.
She has been staring
timelessly at me for a long time now
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