They reckon at 7 you’re too old

for adoption. I look down on your head

that’s too tiny to fit in a swimming cap

or a bicycle helmet and trails behind

your peers by 4 years in reading and writing ;

at your inside out and backward dress

bespattered with pie and think on all

of the words you forget from one line

to the next; the daily reports of doors slammed

shut and fingers bit, the roars and kicks

of 2 year old tantrums that last for ever and say

surely that must count for something?