I would never say
You were just an accidental poet
Shoulders back, wing-perfect posture
You emerge from mid-morning
Lament- second to last,
Second to last
Explain it is not the tighties you mind
But the dull, uneventful patternless white
I must not forget these words fixed in light
—till you say?
Just a little bit…just a little bit
…but you said, no! You. Just. Said. No.
Child of perfect posture
Please, please always, always
Fly home, my little winged one.