Prolific- This fecundity- simple like thought in our servile stream Yeah, if life is a metaphor this must be a pretty heavy book And I’ve been sittin down Rocking my chair Long time out, no time in Feet touch and retreat Touch and retreat Mama isn’t saying right or wrong Papa only sang me songs at bedtime -early on- you make me happy when skies are gray Now we don’t speak Mostly Out of habit Down the road of fourteen Narrow line of marked ire said I hated him I never really knew him He only hurled insults At the tree I come from Screamed, outraged- mother spurned him my flesh, rooted, closest to hers What tales these womb survivors tell stranded in the middle of the day startled into story but never into song. Completed 6/21/2002