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, a sweet

talker on his way to jail.  And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue

nothing.  You did, you loved, your feet

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