Just as the world’s shallowest gene pool
is spread out like spilled oil across the Thames,
we run the sputtering taps until they fill

the plastic baby bath, work up a foam
of No More Tears shampoo, then lower her in,
our dynasty, our legacy to come,

and as the luke warm suds cover her skin,
she smiles, she really smiles, and not because
she’s pushing out a floater that the Queen

could wave at if it passed by her glazed eyes.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jun 07, 2012 @ 22:49:05

    Oh no, not a floater in the bath. Poetry like this could put me of my slice of toast and jam.


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