A chronological collection of writing during my son’s first fortnight of life, in Neonatal ICU.
We watched a pigeon building her nest
And mocked her lack of Snowfall paint
And said we’d call pigeon social services on her
If she kept dropping those twigs.
We played ‘Express Yourself’ on the ipod
While I helped my wife express.
I squeezed her tits
Like this, this and thiiiii-iiiss.
We took pictures and laughed
At his knobbly knees
Which I find myself stroking
And joking he needs
If he’ll be like me:
A writer of poems
On warm afternoons
In April breezes.