cinder-kid

I was,
    Embryonically,
            Her center; born
                                Tardy to
                    The third trimester—
            Later-still, her center.
      All of it
  Revolved ’round me
‘Til I was nine,

Too-tender by the clocks.

Then it moved,
  It did,
      The sublime;
            I’ve been a renter
                    Ever since
                                Of that
            Cinder-kid’s socks—
    Lost long ago the will
To whine.

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    Poetry: Vesuvius
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