When you were six months old,
and we were poor,
I sat in the laundromat,
while cyclopean machines
swirled the shit out of your diapers.
This is how I remember it:
It was cold outside, I was carrying
a bag full of fecal muck,
the room was a place of bleak
linoleum end-of-the-worldness,
and I was stuck in an unhappy marriage.
Though, here, eleven years later,
you are, perfect and serene and happy.
What alchemy! What mysterious
powers govern our makeshift lives!
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