名人诗歌|A Little Tooth

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^{1， a sweet}

talker on his way to jail. And you，

your wife， get old， flyblown， and rue²

nothing. You did， you loved， your feet

are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.