When, at last,
you have witnessed
the birth of the poem,
are you one to count
all its fingers & toes
& marvel at how much
it looks like Grandma?
Can you be seen
kissing its feet,
cooing, “it’s perfect”?
& later,
down the pub,
do you brag & bring out
a handful of fat cigars
with pink writing
proclaiming: “it’s a poem!”?
Just another proud parent
beaming over the latest
miracle of life,
the heir apparent,
something to
carry on the name –
how could it not?
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