There is a twang in each word riddling my mouth;
it wasn't always there, but now
it's all I ever hear.
Monsterette's pitter patter is the only crisp sound
to my ears, the sole refuge in which I can lay
pride without always laying bricks of concern.
Her teeth are neat, perhaps because
they've barely breached, or pierce with
such ease you begin to understand
that nasty grin children cannot help, cannot hide
when they've been caught doing something wrong
She's not even mine, and that makes it okay
to care, to want, to love, unabated by expectation.
it occurred to me how difficult it would be to adopt
primarily because I am a man, but also because I am
young -- society's shallow way of telling me I've failed
in some new measure.
And I'm still not of age yet to care about gardens and the like;
the things you can kill or nurture while being exempt from torture.
I wonder if ever in my future I'll be of age to stop questioning.
perhaps then my twang will cool it, maybe for a few syllables.