I’m sapped
of wonder today.
A twenty-two
year old professional
list maker,
who has shaved
down the
world into hand held
ambitions:
jobs to apply for,
rent to pay,
people to see.
My chest is
filled with hinges
and buckles,
and my mind
needs a
serious bubble bath.
Sam, the one
year old I nanny
smacks his
chubby palm into a mud puddle.
He looks back
at me with a brown-eyed grin,
then back at
his hand’s wetness,
and lets out
a seagull shriek
of delight.
Forget about
repopulation.
The older
generations would shrivel away
from their
urgent ambitions
long before
old age,
were it not
for children.
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