The Poet Is a Strange Device

You stumble through your days, we notice,
Although we’re not sure if your motions
Are more of a double pendulum

Or approaching a limit cycle.
Whatever they’re up to, you look odd
In the eye of the scrutinizer,

Silly robot. If you could steer clear
Of conversation, we wouldn’t be
So nervous, jumpy as new parents,

Always ready to spring from your mouth
Whenever someone else is around.
We could settle down in the chaise lounge

Of these lines and relax, lazy words
Who never had to watch you wobble
Straight toward social interactions,

Daft toddler at the top of the stairs,
Little ant near the ant lion’s trap.
We’d never lose sleep to your babbling

Efforts to grow more and more human,
As you squash and stretch your small ideas
And then fling yourself into the air.