We cannot go out. He will not dress,
Or be clothed, or stay clothed, or tolerate
So much as a sock, or stitch, or suffer
A single thread to cling upon his skin.
Nor eat, nor let us eat, or sleep—
Either of us . . .

Having wrestled with my angel

Forty minutes, or more,

To our mutual exhaustion,

Having dodged a curtain rod

He’s thrown at spear-like

Speed off a stairway landing—

My heart pounding,

And his head soaking wet—

The sweat of his exertion

Brings up baby curls—

I think, as swaddling might

Calm a jittery newborn,

That same might work

In this pinch—with a still

Naked toddler: so

Having done that, I haul him

Several blocks, downtown—

To our café,

whose cheerful waitress

Observes we must have been

Swimming . . .

It is

Summer, so I agree . . .

I just want to order

Something . . .