You were younger than I am
writing this.
Bent double with hunger &
taxi trafficked to
Homerton Hospital
calling a number
the father of your child
gave before going to work,
which of course
does not work.
Your sister came straight from the club,
blurred mascara telling you everything’s
going to be alright.
True to form
I am not late,
of elephantine weight,
9.2 pounds of pain.
There’s no room in the ward
so you’re moved to the
bereaved mother’s wing,
told to hush your cuckoo,
shame separated by a curtain.
You get the same taxi driver
later that day (serendipity).
What are the chances?
Now there are two of you.
Thomas Dylan Bolger 