Three times a day I shook your personality out of a small bottle
for Walmart shoppers,
for the assassins in your classroom,
for my tired times.
A small face trusted up to swallow virtue
since I had failed to bring it into you with life.
How is it that once my blood fed yours yet
which end of the cord hexed the humors?
I stand back far away now
pretending to know what to do with the controlled child
worn out with yearning for the real child
always afraid ahead of the years– if ever
you stop taking the medicine to please me
how will I find you?
Teacher, writer and poet in northern New Jersey.