6727. THE USE OF THE CRADLE (endlessly rocking)

THE USE OF THE CRADLE

(endlessly rocking)

How many times have my own hands beheld the holdings:

rock, paper, scissors, of sorts, a twine and a dream. My

mother's fear, with her children, was always 'cradle cap.'

Something about being too long on the pillow, or

perhaps a sort of 'bedsores for the cranial mind.'

-

I am the man, Walt Whitman again, endlessly rocking:

I have fever sores and Blistex held aside for you.

I have lain now far too long in this callow bed.

-

'Arise, then, and follow me; there are no excuses

in the land of the dead -   new dead, new land, one

without bounds and edges, no fencelines for endings.'

Yep, Ok, Sir! I can see my Mother out there now,

carefully scraping to examine the child's head.

There is nothing more sweet than despair in

this supposed land of the living, not dead.

-

I am the man, Walt Whitman again, endlessly rocking:

I have fever sores and Blistex held aside for you.

I have lain now far too long in this sallow bed.