For all of us who feel that time is passing by too quickly. Happy birthday, my sweet girl. I could not love you more.
|A Little Tooth|
|by Thomas Lux|
Your baby grows a tooth, then two, and four, and five, then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It's all over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet talker on his way to jail. And you, your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue nothing. You did, you loved, your feet are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.