Son, or: Sonnet

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"

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