I have been alone with the baby all day
on the brink of madness and yet
when he walks in, I take out the canary,
He kills the canary, because his day
has been long and awful. In fact,
he takes pleasure in killing the canary,
makes a show of killing the canary.
I am not teary because, through a stroke
of uncertain luck, I see double: his way; mine.
I see the importance of being wary
when we’re too weary to be kind.