She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.