… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

Garrett at Two



You speak the language of poets—

utterances, echoes, iambs—expressed

in smiling reply to my words,

my questions about your newness.

Hold to it.  Remember, while it’s fresh.

Tell me in your made up tongue—

your pickle/gickle/nickle rhymes,

trochee, spondee, babbling enjambment.


Pink, round cheerio mouth, purse-lipped,

like all baby things: singing who you are,

walk/running on tiptoes

to stay upright

lest giggles

and pickle words

topple you.

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