I awake with one dance caught in their path,
clicking any soft voice that doesn’t annoy,
because the young are getting too old today.
Captivated with those restful security waves,
folded in calm arms with their sweet grins,
leading me through what they want to save.
Soaking information draped in fancy,
ripped patches of stonewashed velvet,
centered with a modest plunging neckline.
Escorted here with a numbing toothache,
targeting smiles happily with a toy laser,
while dousing milk over my shriveled wrist.
Playing with worn couch cushions,
as excavating great alien mountains,
since baby has found another new job.
These cartoons scare without Mommy,
brushing with her quiet assurances,
civilizing my naturally knotted hair.
Right after their somber wet funeral,
a joyous fling across the living room,
keeps me laughing pounding a cereal box.
Clearly only this premier arborist will do,
to kiss and blow against my moist skin,
while changing hats for a different script.
Undress these giant puppets behind the scenes,
pulling double duty keeping safe my company,
wrapping your schedule in a downy soft blanket.
Comfort supplied by a few measly rounds,
listening closely to my newest visiting aunt,
stroking whatever isn’t as sensitive left.
Sharwrong's Song 