if only the wind blew stronger
where kites are up in Maine
maybe I’d tell you the strain
about feeling the baby blues
the ebb and flow from boats struggling to stay afloat –
there’s nothing they can do
but keep course on this river
till an island turns them over
like you and me and your stroller
you could fetch every sorry I laid for you
down in Maine where kites are blue.
I’m a mother, not a bailiff, but I forget that
above this lake kites fly high like
your ego did at seven, and I was set
for baby blues at your request.