He grows from our throats,
head the size of a cricket ball,
continually screaming.
I have tried to close his rheum-gluey eyes
but they do not seem to have lids.
In the end, I settle for mirror shades;
he looks like a baby traffic cop.
At parties, we compare our Daves
like caesarian scars, nodding
in sympathy, and each night,
I sing to him, nonsense mostly,
till his screams and mine
harmonise.
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