Of course you may go out but you must know
when I alone lay down our son, full of formula and promise
I instinctively envision single-parenthood while I sing him
“Wish You Were Here” for the hundredth night.
When I was seventeen I envisioned that anthem
sound-tracking my painless, accidental death
featuring my cuckolding crush weeping over my body,
as Pink Floyd synced the monitor, and up the camera went.
I am thirty-one and you are thirty-one. In the nursery,
our son maws gibberish in the dark. The female cat
who you correctly identify as my cat, whinges.
Oh wife, come home to me, and spoon my nervous hinges.
the theory goes
things go to shit
when people good at this
are promoted to shit they can’t
the system glitches
and I wonder if this principle
applies to second children
Doctor I was mistaken
my son is looking for a hidden toy.
His head dug in a bin while I clear the room,
he has no interest in tumbling from the chesterfield.
There was no question whether he claps and though
he’s yet to stack he does (this is new!) tenderly
put things aside. Doctor,
does this matter?
I must end here—
he has the xylophone’s baton
and may choke and die any moment.
The immortal jellyfish becomes a baby,
literally starts over whenever threatened.
Now you know, don’t you want to be one?
This is a normal feeling, to be jealous of a baby.
Historically when we hurt we could forget
our cruel words. Increasingly more is recorded.
When I message him to breach a long quiet
nothing’s gone. We literally pick up where left off.