Saturday, June 10, 2017


I've trapped you in the Bouncy Chair. You just 
complain, you won't accept your precious need
for sleep, mine for rest. Sometimes, oh sometimes
I recall you will not be for long be my
"Potatoes Maroo," not for too long, no,
no; soon you're a woman with a woman's
prerogatives; and I'm, I'm not your old
Pops, but something like your Parent, lucky
to be a consultant. And then you're, oh,
hauling your own oats, you won't need old Pops
to warm and grind your lunch. Like for me now
living will be your problem. If I'm still 
in town, I'll help; I'll miss not lifting you
off an edge, rocking toward the sleepy deeps.

Copyright © 1983 by Patrick O'Hayer

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