New parent friend what friend should I be,
flinty and rusty as the playground gate,
inwardly cursing the coughs
and vocal chords that betray the strain
of bones breaking, muscles popping,
cartilage clicking, new life forming
from new life, generative life,
until it's not, which is where I'm
down by the tree by the chainlink,
skin flayed by the winter vortex
of Long Island City,
wind skimming off glass and steel,
drying out my attitude,
finding my peace and my quiet,
nose deep in the accessories
that conscientious parents
sort into Ziplocks to pass on
and down.
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