In the belly of all beginning, big as a pea, is the child inside;
rolling salt of the spume, of tears, of the sea, is the child inside.
The trouble with floating? Habits accrue against floating, they
grow like barnacles, heavy, sinking the glee of the child inside.
The dark in a stranger much older, much larger, manipulates,
teaches a sorrow, impresses a dark tyranny on the child inside.
Replace the true face, deface with tattoo, learn what to do, and
for others change or cover the caged agony of the child inside.
Even the seemingly suave may be suddenly taken with urges
unkempt to disrupt Miss Manners At Tea, by the child inside.
A tiny detector of bogus, though paused or muted at times,
still writhes against snake oil and hyperbole in the child inside.
Call me by name, please notice I came, I was here
I am me!… persists the perennial plea of the child inside.
Toddle first, toddle last, time siphons the juice from the bloom;
still there, still at work, is the sweet bumble-be of the child inside.
THE CHILD INSIDE