STROLLERS

Walking Lucy muddy mornings

in the park and noticing 

often

the familiar slight chaos—of

this

or that 

little fat 

pink child writhing away, 

lavish but 

livid in the plush redundant safety of its blueish 

gray droplet-shaped confines—
I think:

How?—can my soul

possibly
be

any lighter—

let alone weightier?

than these which walk with it;

when indeed, each seems to have sprung,

so slapdash

and indiscriminately

forth—from one and the very 

same mighty godhead's splitting headache?