Stiff as a mitt I was that's uneasily opened, for all my spitting-- and spit til I could spit
no more!- -and a boy's' strident shortstop legs that oughtn't be filled with dread
but always were. Leaden-winged like seagulls wheeling over me, and as dirtily anxious about evening as anything could be that really oughtn't be afraid to fly, much less fly home
afraid
I sometimes still feel. Nothing, of course, like a drunk papa's shrill whistling to put an end to starry starry sleep that cradled only empty nests (or only the ghost of a child-cradling tree!)
til a familiar father cop came in who for comfort kidded us about the jam stuck in our teeth, comfort food served to sleepless goslings that oughtn't to have been holstered at dawn
but always were
