Dear kid you are the picture
of heart on well worn sleeve.
You oiled every wave of
raw emotion
and etched it on your own face.

Each time you draw a tear
the cascades fill your sorry eyes.
Far cry from masterpiece,
or symphony
but your truest portrait caught in time.

Could you show me how it is done?
I can't seem to find it
You know, the places that are spoken about 
On the blues' records we listen to in your apartment. 
Beautiful life of innocence,
our beings formerly benign. 
moments later
My darling, did you feel any pain just now?
Or was that a cry of joy?
Would you like a glass of milk?
Or would that remind you of suckling babies 
Too soon after we've (spilled)wasted them?