The Child of Your Want

My love is artless, obvious, and bland,

and seeks its image mirrored ‘cross the sea.

It has ample supply and no demand.

Your dynamo of want, it cannot be.

The whole that I can offer is a chance.

I will not gird the bud with carnal lips

that purse around a song to match a dance

presuming likeness to great Shiva’s hips

revolving ’round a fragile, desp’rate seed

when He dances for All, and they for tips,

when they destroy for fun, and He for need.

A hanging man lets go; a newborn grips.

There’s one chance for this nascent son of man:

Take ownership as parents—form a plan.