(wherein our intrepid hero waxes angstical)
Petulant child
your life lived
in forever whine.
“It’s too thick
I don’t like that
you’ll have to wait -
It’s cold.”
I step away
you call me back
crying for my hand
do you imagine me your mother?
or perhaps some secret lover?
I might be flattered
if I thought
you capable
of love
but for all
my cooed sweet nothings
you give nothing
but complaint
I turn to leave
you scream once more
I find myself pulled back
I reach inside
your unbeating heart
and mend what’s gone astray
and for the fourth time this hour,
I unjam
your paper tray.
