by Gerard Sarnat
Mine not toddler perfect, marking
Ell’s hands spread icing on blackberry
cobbler, booboos don’t heal like magic.
Fungoid blue thumbnail shed each year,
codger tolerates the virginal
one that reincarnates below.
Till suddenly after decades, the
new replacement stays translucent.
A budding philospher of happiness — cognition no longer
dismissively lockstep against green cocoanut frosting — I’ve fallen
in love with oven self-cleaning in a less ascetic soul kitchen.
Quite unimpressed by my distinct inattention,
Elliot blows me
for us to begin putting on my birthday candles.