The old crob
Where I gnawed tooth marks, at age three,
I am told, when I had whooping cough,
I was told, or perhaps another childhood disease,
But not chickenpox, because I had that when I was eight
And in the third grade, never having missed
A day in school before that,
But needing to stay home until every pock
Was gone, at least those visible, and
I wearied of waiting for the last one
On my nose, and finally picked it off
In frustration and left a minor scar,
Which perhaps you can still discern,
If you look closely, between the wrinkles
For years, mom used that crib, tooth marks and all
To hold extra blankets in the upstairs bedroom.
I can see it very plainly in my mind's eye.
But where it is now, I do not know.
Floet The Poet