Garrett at Two
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.