Creased browned unbound fraying pages swaddled In dusty ragged strips of cloth behind Her desk that daily, hourly, brought to mind Khakied legs at which a child once toddled Shaky hands and wise, weak eyes, which coddled Him; but this - was he intended to find Her manuscript - scribbled on worn sheets lined With fantasies, genius therein modeled? "This I dedicate to my dearest son Precious, darling muse playing at my feet With discarded scraps of this final book Should you be discouraged by anyone Stodgy, uninspired, muddling through concrete Trust in your childish, clever gobbledygook"
Skip to content
of a son
