You are forlorn, my sweet little chick
your father has not forgotten to pick you up
you have memorized his license plate number
so you can spot him coming down the road
but your sweet little sad eyes have me hooked
and my heart is aching for you,
I admire your devotion, your soft side
Someday, it will mean nothing to you
that your father has forgotten you
or that he remembered to pick you up
but there is nothing to talk about
except that he can't wait to go home
and have a drink,
Oh, poison
But for now, today, we will both sit
you in my lap, your hands on my arms
a bit bewildered by the answers we find
to satisfy our curiosities, a bit tired
and we'll watch outside the window,
we'll talk about the mountains,
your little hands will imitate shapes
and movements that you see,
waiting for our father's license plates
except yours will appear faithfully
today, tomorrow, yesterday, three weeks ago
it seems endless, doesn't it?
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