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Poem: Repeat 

He’s a pretty good dancer

for a two-year-old.

We like to kick up our heels (his soft and new) and

boogie along (to) the Arc of Time.

It’s his favorite song. Correction:

It’s my favorite song.

But he doesn’t really have a choice now

does he?

’Cause I control the stereo,

and I am sick of songs that swim above

the rest of us, spouting morals like

Baby Beluga.


He has the brightest eyes.

That’s what people say when I show them pictures.

You should see them when they’re closed,

I think.

Tongue-tied and toddling.

Tufts of feathery hair blooming to the beat.


We cut the carpet in the living room.

Sunlight refracting through tiny fingerprint mazes,

frenzied lyrics spilling over

hysterical beats.


Again, he says.

So I skip backward one more time,

eyeing every sharp angle in the room.

 

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