Puerile

Tug my hair
little puerile, how dare you
cross the yard to bite
my fingers, smash my house,
dancing in your tiny vest
with one button swinging

on its string –
like you, unraveled
dimwit, don’t you know?
How wicked the summers are,
how weary the winters;
I won’t love you
if you knock off my hat.

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